


i'm the king of Pomona

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: A+ Parenting, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, BDSM, Consensual Violence, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Drugs, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Kink Exploration, M/M, Multi, PWP, Romance, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sexual Roleplay, Slut Shaming, Threesome - F/M/M, and shameless emotion porn, buck-wild punctuation, general meandering lack of direction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2019-11-07 03:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 203,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17952617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: Of course, Brian likes roleplaying—he's good at it, too—like he's good at everything. Funny. Quick-thinking. Dexterous. Talented. And alwaysgame. Just add it to the list.or,(in which Brian's compiling a list, and Pat is along for the ride)





	1. - game -

**Author's Note:**

> RPF WARNING: This is a fiction story about fictional characters who happen to share names and faces with some real people, because that's how erotic fantasies work, sometimes. If it squicks you, offends you, involves you, or confuses you, please avoid.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: This fic features sex scenes in the context of a consensual relationship, and is mostly fluffy. However, it also contains moments of character angst (including non-sexy triggers like trauma), roleplay of various noncon/coercive relationships, and lots of intense moments of safewording, boundary negotiation, aftercare, and failed scenes. 
> 
> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC WARNINGS ARE FOUND AT THE **END** OF EACH CHAPTER so you can avoid triggers and squicks. Note, though, that almost all chapters contain explicit NC17 smut, D/s relationship dynamics, BDSM, the sexual sobriquet "daddy," and nasty name-calling. 
> 
> AUTHOR WARNING: I do that Kanye thing where I edit the chapters after posting 'em. I moderate comments (so tell me your secrets). I _love_ italics. I do take requests, because 2019: BECOME THE MONSTER.
> 
> fyi, -chapters- with dashes are from Pat's POV, 3 -dashes-- indicates a threesome chapter. (chapters) with parentheses are from Bri's POV, 3 (parens)) indicates a threesome chapter.

Of  _course_ , Brian likes to roleplay.

It’s not that Pat wasn’t a theater nerd, too. He was. He likes showtunes well enough—and making goofy absurd videos—and arguing about when the most dramatic moment in the script is for a spit take.

It’s just that he never—

—well. Not  _never_. He’s played a bit, with Simone. He supposes what they do is kind of like acting—the things she does—the things she has him do. It’s not quite make-believe, and it’s not quite real. They don’t plan out scenes, or anything, but there is a sense of dramatic pacing.

But Brian is...

different.

First of all, he likes to talk it out. Before. It’s weird, to Pat, who’s used to acting without thinking, to being bowled over with emotion, to doing things in bed that he wouldn’t let himself even think about in the day. Things that no decent person would ever do. Would ever  _want_  to do. Especially to someone as cute as Brian. 

Pat blushes hideously when the conversation touches some dark, secret place he didn’t know he had. He looks away when Brian smiles with sweet fluffy hair and wide eyes and dimples and his hand sneaking down Pat's pants. He gets tongue-tied whenever Brian asks him,  _what do you like?_

 _You_  is apparently not a good enough answer—

—too sappy-romantic and evasive, although Brian does kiss back at him—

before straddling his lap and plunging into endless suggestions with a proximity that makes conscious thought difficult for Patrick.

Brian’s so  _quick_.

He lists things off, shamelessly, dozens of things, things Pat’s seen in pornos and parodies and in his mind’s eye—things that Pat has thought about, sure, in some humiliating private moment—some things Pat’s  _never_  thought about—

—or would never  _admit_  that he’s thought about—

but it’s not like he fantasizes with the expectation that his fantasies could  _happen_ …

After every wicked idea, Brian looks up, cheerfully, into Pat’s face. Most of the time, Pat can’t even bear to choke out an answer, but the kid must be getting what he needs out of the furious blushing. He's cataloging something, the little bastard, asking and looking and laughing and then moving on. Pat can barely catch his breath enough to wonder why he’s so fucking easy to read, because Brian is asking—

_would you like me in a skirt?_

—and it’s  _impossible_  to just look politely interested instead of like the guilty old pervert that he is.

Brian laughs—

 _Okay. Let’s start with easy stuf_ f, he says, stepping off Pat’s lap. As if he’s got the whole thing planned out already, as if the next few months are going to be a carefully-curated schedule of content, wherein the theme that content is going to be  _fucking pat gill’s brains out_.

The _easy stuff_  is already almost too much, when Brian slips off his lap and slips off his pants and gets on his knees in his overlarge t-shirt and pouts his lip and calls him  _daddy_ —

Pat’s breath sticks in his throat—

—it’s horrible, it’s  _horrible_ , how fucking  _instantly hard_  he is

It’s almost too much—

but then he sees Brian stifle a smirk. He sees it—the urge to gloat, about guessing right— _first try Pat Gill, no-scope, sniped you right out of the air_ —and then as soon as it flashes the grin is gone, and Brian’s all wide-eyed and innocent, biting his lip, and asking if he’s in trouble.

God  _damn_ it—

the thing about Brian is that he’s pushy, and he’s talented, and he’s always  _game_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> \- mentions of Pat/Simone,  
> \- mentions of boys in skirts,  
> \- Daddy kink.


	2. - taxi -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat drives a taxi. brian gets in it. then: sex.
> 
> _you like the blue and the sun with a glare / give me a shade of gray / for when the storm clouds were hovering there / my future came my way_

“Where to?” Pat says flatly. He tries not to sound fed up, but this day has been shit. Traffic everywhere, and the baby-faced kid that just slid into the back, half-drunk, looks fresh out of college and definitely not like a good tipper. Fuckin’ serves him right, for trying for  _just one more ride_  at this hour of the night. He never has good luck, this late.

“Uh…I’m…go down 2nd and…” The address is mumbled, but Pat knows where it is.

He peeks at the rear-view with a skeptical eyebrow. The kid is wasted, he thinks. Preppy. But cute. He’s got a shock of hair that runs down into his eyes, and he looks like he was pretty dressed up at some point today. Now his sleeves are rolled and his collar is undone and his cheeks are flushed and hot. He seems like he’s barely holding it together.

Pat lets his hands squeeze the wheel. In… _frustration_.

Frustration isn’t good. It’s bad for customer service. But since it’s the end of the night Pat lets himself get a little ticked. This college kid thinks he’s too good for the subway. Probably spent a week’s worth of wages getting drunk on craft beers at the fancy bar he just left. Probably just likes to drink and smoke and fuck and never get in any fucking trouble for it.

The kid catches his eye, in the mirror. Pat knows he’s scowling, so he looks away. Says something.

“Party’s over? Headed home?”

“Yeah,” the kid blushes— _how the fuck does Brian blush at will, Pat will never know_ —and falls silent.

The drive is short. “That’ll be twenty-two fifty,” Pat says, when they pull up.

It takes a moment, for the kid to pat around for his wallet.

And then another moment.

And another. Oh for the love of—

“ _Fuck_. My wallet’s gone. I’m&mdashI'm so sorry—I don’t have any cash—”

“Like hell you don’t,” Pat grits his teeth. “Look at you. You’ve got money.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Pat shuts off the car, turns around to glare. He can scare some money out of this little asshole. He’s gotta have at least that much spine, to work this job, in this city.

“Stop pulling my leg, kid,” he says low, and dangerous. “Just cough up the cash and get the fuck out of my cab.”

“Please. I’m so s-sorry. I don’t have it.” The voice is a little higher now, still sloppy from booze, and pretty close to panicked. It could be that he’s telling the truth...or it could be that he’s a sneaky clever practiced little liar who knows that tears will get him off the hook.

The kid wrestles with the door, jumps out. Pat follows. He’s not going to tolerate this  _bullshit_. “You’re not fucking running off, kid. You owe me money.” He squares off, arms crossed, blocking the way.

“I must have—lost it—someone took it—I don’t know.” Kid's pushing his hair out of his eyes, stuttering, red and not quite steady on his feet. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

Pat scowls. “Fuck you. I’m not falling for this. You’re going to pay me. Or I’m calling the cops. You ever heard of  _theft of services_? It’s not like they’re gonna have a hard time finding where you live.”

The kid sucks in a breath. That scares him. Good.

“Look, mister,” he pleads, stretching out his empty hands. “No cash. No cards. What can I…”

“You can explain it to the cops,” Pat says flatly, pulls out his phone. “I’m sure your parents will pay the fine and you’ll go traipsing off to screw the next guy. But I hope they at least throw your ass in jail for the night.”

“ _No_ ,” the kid grabs his hand, “—please—”

Pat doesn’t like him getting grabby like that, and shoves him off with more force than is strictly necessary. The slim body bangs up against his car, makes a satisfying thud and a little  _oof_. Kid doesn’t move, though, just stays there, half-pinned between Pat and the door.

“I’m calling, you little fucker, unless you figure out how you’re going to pay me.”

The blotchy red face is frantic and panicked though his body is quite still and he sticks out another shaky hand&mdash but this time, it doesn't grab. It just rests flat, tentative, on Pat's chest. 

Oh. Interesting.

“I can…” the voice trembles only a little. “If you…might want…some other payment…”

“Keep talking,” Pat says gruffly.

“I can…” the kid swallows, like something’s stuck in his throat.

“I’m listening. What you got to offer me, kid?”

“I can suck you off, mister. Instead of cash. I’m good with my mouth. I swear.”

_…the thrill of hearing it, out loud, in the open air, shakes Pat out for a second. He’s looking down at Brian, pretending to feel a dark curl of wicked desire, and also actually feeling it, feeling like he shouldn’t want this but that he surely, surely does. It’s hard to keep his character up, when he wants to kiss Brian so badly—when he’s not sure if he’s playing the right role—when he’s not sure if this is all too sick…_

_Brian sees his expression slip, maybe, and his other hand grasps Pat’s forearm, squeezes a bit. Wordlessly asking. You okay? This working? Wanna pause? Want more?_

_It's working, Pat realizes. He can put away some parts of himself, and let the other, darker parts out. Brian’s not going to laugh at him. Brian’s just a shitheel college kid right now, who’s scared of getting a mark on his record. He’s just like the rest of them, always thinks he can get away scott-free, from any of his mistakes…_

Emboldened, he grabs the kid’s chin and tilts it up. Examines. He’s pretty, in this light. Definitely too pretty, and too rich, to offer something like this. It’s lucky he’s drunk.

“I can get a blowjob for cheaper than twenty bucks.”

Pat might be a liar, but he’s good at negotiation. The kid’s eyes flutter nervously, but there’s a hint of something in there—competitive edge, maybe. Drunken boldness. Wanton confidence.

“Not one like mine, mister. I can give you all the bells and whistles. It’ll be worth it.”

“Huh. I’ll be the judge of that, kid.” He lets his hand shift on the kid’s face, thumb pulls his lip down. The mouth comes open obediently, letting the digit just start to press in. No resistance in the  _slightest_. Pat’s dick twitches when a tongue flicks out, just for a moment, gives a tentative lick.

“I  _thought_  you might have done this before,” Pat growls scathingly. “You have the look. Of someone who thinks their pretty face and their daddy’s money can always get them out of a jam. Just ‘cause you’ve got a little practice doesn’t mean you’re  _talented_ , kid.”

The breaths on his hand are hot and short. “Let me convince you.”

“All right.”

Pat backs off, lets the kid grab his hand, pull him up the steps into the house, shut the door behind him. The stumbling steps are more confident once they’re inside, solicitous, even bold, guiding Pat to the couch, pressing him down, nudging his legs apart to palm at the erection straining against his pants.

“Hey there,” Pat grabs his wrist, “no need to rush. I’m done driving for the night. So let’s make sure I don’t get short-changed, hmm? I’d hate to have to go back on the deal.”

Brian— _the kid, the kid, fuck, easy to slip out without the name_ —blushes, and pulls away. “Of course.”

“What should I call you, princess?”

The kid hesitates, bites his lip, and then sighs.  _Fuck_. “Brian. If you want.”

“All right, Brian. It’s warm in here, I think. Why don’t you just hop up and get a little more comfortable?” He lets his voice lower. “Slowly.”

Brian nods shyly and stands. Pat lets himself parallel the movements—unbuttoning himself as the kid’s hands pull apart his shirt buttons, one-by-one, exposing by inches his neck, his chest, his belly-button, just the hint of a pink nipple.

Pat sees something he wants, and beckons sharply with a couple fingers. The kid obeys instantly, drawing close, letting Pat curl a possessive hand around his hipbone. He just presses there for a second, appreciating the soft angles, then pushes the body around, down into his lap, facing out. Brian stumbles a bit, not sure what’s going on.

“Mister? What should I—?”

“Let’s get that shirt off, mm?”

Brian nods and starts to pull it up with his hands. Pat takes advantage of his distraction to wrap a firm forearm around his slim waist, to let his other hand push the kid’s legs apart, grope a bit.

“I thought I was supposed to touch  _you_ ,” the kid says, nervously, but he still sucks in a breath as Pat’s hand roams.

“Don’t worry,” Pat mouths against his neck. “We’ll get to that part.” Brian’s body shivers, whether from anticipation or fear or arousal, it’s hard to guess. He nips possessively at an earlobe.

The kid is  _good_ , all smooth skin and hot breath, holding still but also trembling, growing hard, in Pat’s grasp. He makes a little surprised noise, when Pat bucks up into him, a sound halfway between a yelp and a moan.

“ _Please_ ,” Brian begs, but it’s unclear what for.

“If you’re good enough with your mouth, you have nothing to worry about. ” Pat hisses wickedly into his ear, choosing the interpretation that best fits. “I won’t need anything else.”

“I’m good,” Brian avers, quickly. “I’m very good.  _Please_ , mister. Let me try—”

“You are  _awfully_  eager to get your mouth on me, kid,” he taunts. “Trying to get it over with? Or maybe the free ride was just an excuse for you to get some dick.”

Brian has no response except a choked sound. Pat squeezes him hard and chuckles.

“All right, princess. Let’s get going. On your knees.”

The kid slides bonelessly to the floor, turns around, so he’s eye-level with Pat’s crotch. He reaches for Pat’s fly right away, to pull him out, but Pat grabs his wrist again, stops him.

“Nope. Wait.” He cants his hips—it shoves his length right in Brian’s face, to do it—and pulls down his jeans and boxers past the knees, steps out of them. “There we are.”

Brian is looking at him, hesitating.

“Too big for you?”

He shakes his head, and dives in, licking up the side. He’s looking up at Pat while he starts to suck, and it’s a pretty sight.

_—it’s too pretty—it feels too good—Pat struggles to stay in the headspace—to push away that little pleasant burn of joy he gets every time they do this—every time he looks down at Brian and sees that this sexy, beautiful, talented, enthusiastic creature is willing to play with him—_

With effort, he controls himself.  _Fuck_ , the kid is good. He’s sucking and humming now with abandon, clever little hands sneaking up to help out.

“You’re not bad, kid” he moans, and he knows the tone puts the lie to his nonchalance.

Brian seems to take this as a sign to intensify his efforts, and soon he’s swirling and twisting and it’s fucking  _very very very good—_

“I bet—” Pat pants, “—someone like you—is too good—to swallow…”

The kid pauses only for a moment, to pull off his dick, and rest his cheek on Pat’s thigh. He looks hot and bothered and his eyes are shining. “Whatever you want, mister.”

“Let me come on your face,” Pat says, in a rush, before he loses the nerve.

Brian nods once, and goes back to work. Pat wraps a hand in his tousled hair, pulls hard, guides the kid back and forth, slow at first, but then back up to his previous pace. It’s so  _good_ , the way he uses his mouth, his hands, in tandem. It’s wet and hot and tight and perfect, and he’s—

“I’m—”

He yanks out of the kid’s mouth at the last second, right in front of his face, and lets spurts of cum paint across rosy cheeks. The kid keeps his mouth open and his eyes closed, like a good little whore, and is still until Pat’s dick stops twitching.

_...Brian doesn’t open his eyes, and he’s trembling, but his fingers are quickly and calmly finding their way to his own dick, so Pat knows he’s all right. Pat can’t believe how fucking good Brian looks like this, and he holds out a hand, unable to resist caressing Brian’s cheek, touching skin reverently. Amazing. That Brian would... do this... for him—_

_—when his fingers make contact, Brian turns his face, almost imperceptibly, just a little toward the touch. His tongue flicks out, a microsecond, a dare. He bats an eye open, and his gaze is naughty—and Pat’s fuzzy-headed from orgasm, but he’s not going to miss a hint like that—_

He smears his finger across the sweet little face lewdly and laughs. “Oy, kid, you’re a real mess.”

Brian lets him plunge his jizz-covered fingers in his mouth, wipe them on his tongue. The kid sucks them, face flushing bright red and eyes screwed shut. Pat strokes down his throat, possessively, like he owns it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He seizes Brian’s wrists&mdashpulls his hands out of his pants&mdashto drag him up. Brian stumbles after him, lets Pat pull him in to the tiny white bathroom, bat his hand away from the washcloths, although he’s clearly confused.

Things become clear when Pat pulls him up short in front of the mirror. He manages the maneuver all right, pulling Brian back to his chest, wrapping a forearm around his collarbone, his other hand snaking around, first to push the kid’s hips back and then finally to seize his dick.

Brian makes a strangled sound, and his eyes lock on Pat’s languid smile in the mirror.

“Don’t you look good, princess? With my cum on your face?”

The kid shudders and bucks against him.

“Want me to finish you off?”

“Please,” Brian begs.

“All right, calm down,” Pat licks at the kid’s neck as he starts to pump. “If you insist. Always got to have yours, don’t you?”

Brian nods pitifully and makes absolutely  _shameless_  sounds as Pat jerks him off in front of the mirror. It’s so  _gorgeous_ , how he writhes, how his mouth makes those shapes and his back arches and every time he catches a glimpse of himself he blushes scarlet and tries to turn away. Pat doesn’t let him. He finishes him off ruthlessly, right there, and it’s a fucking delight.

 

* * *

 

After they’ve cleaned up, and are washed and dressed and falling into bed, Brian can’t stop giggling. At first Pat is bashful—ashamed, even—maybe his filthy old mind was just too stupid and silly—but in a minute Brian is smothering him with grateful kisses and whispering  _oh my god oh my god Pat that was so fun thank you thaaaank you._

Pat blinks. “You’re something else, Bri.”

“ _Me_?!” Brian is laughing, and glowing, and twirling his fingers in Pat’s hair. “Pat Gill, you sexy beast. You really—you  _sell_  it—your voice—”

“It’s not hard for me to be a dirty old man who thinks with his dick.”

“Well  _good_  because we’re definitely doing that again,” Brian tugs his hair to emphasize the point. “You slayed it. Asking my name. Getting your money’s worth. Finishing on my face. Where the hell did you get that?”

“Dunno. It was okay?”

“It was  _hot_.” Pat feels the curl of uncertainty dissolving, slowly, in his gut, and lets it resolve into a shamefaced grin. “And— _heavens_ , Patrick—when you called me princess—you have no idea—”

“Good. I wasn’t sure. I almost called you a few  _other_  things, but…”

“Ooh-ooh save it for next time!” Brian gushes excitedly. “You can call me  _anything_ , you know. Anything you want. I love it when you make me feel two feet tall. Be mean.”

Pat can’t resist the urge to caress Brian’s hair any longer. He needs a distraction from how this instruction twists his gut in the best possible way. “I don’t want to go too far. You don’t know how fucking dirty my thoughts can be, Bri.”

Brian scoffs. “Don’t be shy. I mean, don’t do anything you don’t want to do, but—” he raises an eyebrow “—you can do anything you  _want_  to do, you know.”

“Dangerous,” Pat cautions. “I dunno what I want until we start…”

“Oh man, you really get into the headspace, huh?” At first Pat blushes, thinks Brian is mocking, but he quickly amends. “Not that I don’t. I do. I really do. I just wasn’t sure—if you were—humoring me? Or if you were  _really_  into trying it.”

“Oh, I’m into it,” says Pat. And then, because Brian’s bright smile makes him brave. “What’s next on the list?”

“Let’s do seven next time,” Brian gushes instantly. “It’ll be really different. Fun.”

“Perfect,” says Pat, who doesn’t remember what seven is, and doesn’t care.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS  
> \- sex: handjobs, oral sex, facials,  
> \- BDSM: humiliation, domination,   
> \- language: "whore"  
> \- (roleplay of) coercive sex, transactional sex  
> \- kink: (legal) age difference, mirror kink


	3. - camp -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat's a jock. brian's a geek. naturally, they have some disagreements, but they manage to work out the kinks. 
> 
> _tell me more, tell me more / was it love at first sight? / tell me more, tell me more / did she put up a fight?_

“Of course it just had to be  _you_ ,” a flat voice quips, when Pat enters the room.

He scopes the situation. Shitty drapes. Pile of blankets. Two bunks. One scrawny little band geek, sitting on one, glaring up at him. Brian Gilbert.

“Shut up, fag,” he dismisses. “And get off my bed.”

“I got here  _first_.” Brian crosses his arms, scowls, only a hint of wavering. “I picked bottom.”

Pat pulls off his jacket, lays it aside on a chair. “We ain’t talking about your sex life, Gilbert. So fuck off.”

“You’re a philistine,” Brian snorts, but moves. Pat brushes off the sheets like they’re dirty and shoves his duffel on the bed. The kid’s climbing up into the top bunk, but he’s pouting about it like he's doing Pat a  _favor_. We're gonna need to do something about that bravado, before things get too out of hand.

He thinks, for a few minutes, looks down at his knees on the edge of the bunk. There's a couple options for how to show the kid who's boss. Maybe he'll try one or two out tonight, and then he's got the whole week to make sure he remembers.

“Get down here, Gilbert,” he barks. “You’re bugging me.”

“I am literally—I'm doing  _nothing_ —I’m just trying to sleep. So leave me alone.”

The last sentence is supposed to come out like an order, but it sounds more like a question. Pat smirks. Kid might be playing tough, but he knows that he’d lose a fight if Pat starts one. So Pat’s looking to start one.

“You have three seconds to get your ass down here, Gilbert, or else I’m coming up.”

The kid huffs, but does scramble at that—he knows that getting yanked off the top bunk by his ankle is gonna hurt, and that Pat will do that, if he feels like it.

When Gilbert comes down the ladder, it’s easy as pie to get an arm across his face, grab his tricep, and then jerk a hand up between his legs. He struggles, when he realizes what’s happening, but he doesn’t struggle in the right ways, and in a few seconds Pat’s locked his hand with his wrist, hitched the leg up.

“Ow  _ow ow_  okay! What’d I do! Get  _off me_ , you dick!”

He's fighting, but his leg is trapped between Pat’s arms and he can’t really kick back. He’s just squirming. Pat squats, rolls them both to the ground, gets the kid pinned in a solid cross-face cradle.

“I don’t like your tone, Gilbert.”

“You’re—an  _asshole_ —”

Brian is trying to scratch him, kick him, but the angle just doesn’t quite work. The pushing and jerking are almost cute, with how ineffective they are, and Pat's dick starts making interested jumps from its spot pinned up against the kid's ass. Stymied, Brian makes an attempt to bite Pat's arm, but Pat just crunches down so his head can’t bend that way, and he can barely graze a tooth against it.

“Manners,” Pat scolds. “And cut it out. I don’t want your spit all over me.”

“Okay—okay—” Brian groans. “Gill. You win, okay? You win. Let me go?”

“Or else…?”

“Look, man, I’m sorry,” Brian pants. He's stopped squirming, and he sounds a little nervous. “For, uh, existing. Or bugging you. Or whatever. You can have my lunch money? Or whatever you want? Okay?"

"Maybe I just wanna hear you ask  _nicely_."

Brian swallows. "Um. Okay. P-please let me go? You're hurting—you’re gonna break my friggin' leg if you keep— _owww_.”

Pat knows that Brian knows that this isn't good enough. He pushes harder.

“I heard from Tenory that you’re getting big for your britches, Gilbert. Got a real smart mouth.  _And_  made a move on his girl last week. You got anything to say to that?”

“I did not—okay, okay,  _gosh_ —fucking let up—I went to a  _movie_  with Sam. We’re  _friends_. Although not for long if she keeps hanging out with you ass— _owwwww_.”

“I could do this all night,” Pat warns, squeezing harder.

“And you call  _me_  a faggot,” Brian mumbles. It’s quiet, but Pat hears.

He growls. Brian freezes.

"What was that."

"Nothing."

He presses hard, into the underside of the knee he has trapped, until he hears a yelp.

“What the fuck. Did you just say. Gilbert.” Pat’s voice gets low and dangerous.

"I didn't say shit." Brian gasps out.

Pat lets him go, and he has enough sense to try and flee. It’s easy to grab him, step into him, get him off-balance, push him against the wall, push up, with a hand on his throat. Brian wraps both of his hands around Pat’s wrist, but Pat’s got his elbow locked and he’s got longer arms and even if he didn’t, the kid can’t really get away, anyway. He’s gotta sleep sometime.

“Wanna run that by me again,” Pat says softly.

Gilbert’s not smirking now, or scowling, just looking at him with wide scared eyes and trying to think fast. “Um. I just meant—I didn’t mean—”

“What didn’t you mean.”

“I wasn’t uh—trying to  _insult_  you—it was just a joke—”

“Lay out the punchline for me again.”

“Please,” Brian tries begging, instead, and this time his voice has a little hitch that lights Pat’s blood on fire.

Pat examines him, lets the silence drag on. The kid is sweating. His hands are slick, where they’re wrapped around Pat’s wrist.

“So you think I’m a fag, huh?”

Gilbert’s expression is real fuckin’ panicked, now that it’s out in the open. “I'm sorry—I don’t—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I—I—”

“Why else would you start some shit with me. On the  _first fucking day_  of camp. Unless you thought maybe you could get me worked up enough—”

“No!”

“So here I am. Worked up. What are you gonna do about it?”

There’s a pause. Silence in the room. A couple beats. Brian’s expression is struggling with something, and then he sighs. “Sorry. Requiem. Just a minute.”

_Pat drops his arm instantly, backs off, raises his hands. His heart is in his throat. “Sorry. I hurt you?”_

_“No,” Brian shakes his head, although he is rubbing at his neck thoughtfully. All the adrenaline Pat's been building up comes crashing to a halt and it must show on his face, because Brian waves him off. “No, no. You're not freaking me out. Nothing like that. I just.” He grins sheepishly. “Didn’t want to faint on you.”_

_Pat's stomach cramps so hard he feels bile in his throat. “Fuck. I—I’m sorry—"_

_"No worries! Really."_

_Pat pushes his sweaty, treacherous hands into his thighs, trying not to let them shake as his brain envisions Brian slackening, crumpling to the floor. He fucking hates it. It makes him sick. He doesn't want to hurt Brian. He never wants to hurt Brian, except that he's a fucking animal who always wants to hurt Brian, and regularly does hurt Brian until he cries and begs and pleads…_

_"Stop it," Brian tugs at his wrists, pulls him back. "It's not your fault choking is sexy."_

_"I was trying not to push that hard—”_

_“It’s not the pressure exactly,” Brian says, and despite the fact that Pat feels like a monster, Brian’s tone is so…normal. Like he just fucked up what beats what at poker, instead of nearly strangling his boyfriend. “Here, let me show you. Are you okay if I touch you?”_

_Pat nods, and Brian steps close, wraps a hand around his throat. He can feel his pulse racing, hot and loud, under Brian’s thumb. “So like, if you push on my Adam’s apple, it’ll hurt like hell, and fuck up my voice. You didn’t do that, by the way.” He adds quickly.“So you’re squeezing on the sides, instead. Like this.”_

_He does so, and Pat submits to the grip. It doesn’t hurt, and although he’s still feeling guilty at the moment more than aroused, it does start to get his dick interested again. Brian keeps holding, and squeezes a little more. “It’s fine for a second or two but if I keep holding it—it’s pinching the carotid on both sides—you’ll feel light-headed. See?”_

_Pat waits a beat, until his breathing starts to feel funny and his lips tingle.“Shit. Yeah,” Brian drops his hand. “I’m an idiot. I mean, that makes sense. It’s basic anatomy. Sorry.”_

_“Don’t stress.” Brian wrinkles his nose, and gives a funny sort of smile. “Honestly? I’d let you choke me out, if you wanted."_

_"You'd—let me—"_

_Brian brushes his hair out of his face, as if he's the one who should be feeling bashful. "It can be kinda fun. I dig it. But I didn’t think you’d wanna do it by accident.”_

_“No,” Pat says quickly, not letting his mind think too hard about whether he'd ever… “I…no. But thanks. For stopping me.”_

_He sighs._

_“Stop looking guilty,” Brian curls a hand in Pat’s hair, reaches up to kiss him. “I’m having fun. It’s all good. You wanna get back into it?”_

_“It’s not—I didn’t kill the moment?”_

_“I recover quickly,” says Brian archly, pushing against Pat’s leg. “I wanna see what happens next. When the hot wrestling jock has me right where he wants me.”_

_A shadow of a smile darts across Pat’s face. “You’ve got a thing for bad boys, Bri. What kind of happy ending are you expecting?_

_“I dunno, Pat, I’m just like—going with the flow here—but dude, you’re intense. You’ve got a real like—closeted James Dean meets Biff energy—it is working for me, daddy. Are you out of steam, or can we…”_

_Pat laughs lightly. “I’m all right. I think I got a couple more childhood traumas to work through.”_

_“Damn,” Brian kisses him once more. “I’d hate to meet whoever bullied you in school. Let’s just start on the bed. We can say you’ve pinned me down, mmm? You can do one of your wrestling things again, if you want. They’re hot.”_

_“Okay. Take your shirt off, first,” Pat instructs. “Then lie down. I think I can remember a grapevine.”_

_“Flirty,” Brian giggles, stripping it off, and also undoing his fly._

 

* * *

 

It takes a little trial and error for Pat’s body to remember what to do. How to hook his arms through Brian’s, pull his back off the mattress, capture his torso so he can't get free. Wrap one leg through the leg below him, spread it into position with his ankle. Then the other. Arch back, pin the body below him, chest-to-chest, lifting his ankles to lock Brian out of using his legs—he can even catch a wrist, if he’s careful—

“You’re telling me straight boys do this?” Brian says, breathlessly, from below him.

“Shut it, Gilbert,” he snaps. “I’m concentrating. You’re getting a master class right now.”

Brian does shut it, tucking away a quick smile.

“So I think,” Pat breaths hot air in Brian’s ear. “You were trying to figure out how to apologize to me.”

Brian squirms, struggling lightly—and then harder—and then  _harder_ —when he finds he can’t get his arms free and his feet are locked up, unable to buck Pat off as the taller boy grinds into him.

“Stop it. Unless you’re really keen to try out some submission holds.”

“Are those—different?” Brian groans, making a last-ditch effort to roll, but Pat’s hands are on either side and he’s steady, because he remembers this one. It’s good for wrestlers with long legs. Brian doesn’t stand a fucking chance. “Fuck—I can’t—”

“Get up? Yeah, Gilbert, that’s the goddamn point. Pins are to immobilize you. Submission holds hurt so bad that you tap out.”

Brian stills. “Please don’t, um. Do that. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Have you, kid? Not gonna mouth off anymore?”

“Not unless you want me to,” Brian breathes, and Pat’s heart goes  _racing_  again.

“What’s  _that_  supposed to mean, Gilbert.”

Brian blinks up at him, eyes wide. “I dunno.”

Pat leans on one elbow, lets an arm free for a second, scowls. “Don’t play dumb. Your mouth is always writing checks your ass can’t cash. Sounded like you were offering something.”

“Will it get you to leave me alone,” Brian gasps, “For the week.”

Pat raises an eyebrow. “I’m not following you, Gilbert. Spell it out for me.”

Brian closes his eyes. “I’m afraid—if I say it—you’re gonna hit me.”

“I might,” Pat drawls. “But you're starting to grow on me. So let's hear it.”

“You can fuck me,” Brian opens his eyes, and he’s pretty carefully crafted his expression, Pat thinks. It’s tight. Nervous. But  _interested_. Like he’s in a cage with a bear but it’s a  _sexy_  bear, and if he’s going to die anyway, he’s thinking  _might as well_ …

“I’m not a queer,” Pat breathes disdainfully.

“Didn’t stop Tenory,” says Brian, slyly.

Pat rolls off Brian in surprise. “What the  _fuck_ , Gilbert. Are you saying—”

The kid pushes himself up, shirtless, sweating, and his hair is in his face. It looks  _good_ , how flushed he is, how the red marks from Pat’s hands and face and arms break up the smooth white skin of his body, how long his brown hair is. He looks…pretty. Almost like a girl, just…a little sharper.

“I mean, you could break my nose, instead. Whichever would be more humiliating?”

For a moment, Pat pretends to think about this.

He reaches out to grab the shock of brown hair. Brian flinches, but he ignores it, grasps firmly. “You’re gonna be face down, faggot.”

“You’re the boss,” Brian breathes. He lets Pat paw his pants off, then flips on all fours, spine curving away deliciously. Pat shucks his own pants off, palms his dick. Pauses, for a minute, with his hand on the kid’s hips, as if uncertain where to begin.

His silence makes Brian turn, slightly. “Have you done this before? In the ass? With a girl, I mean.”

“None of your fucking business,” Pat scowls.

He brushes a dry finger up against Brian's ass, touches his entrance. He hates how much he likes how much the body below him shivers.

“I was just  _asking_. Maybe…start with lube?" the kid suggests, faintly.

"Yeah?" He presses his finger a bit more, threatening, until Brian's breathing is  _really_  doing something interesting.

“If you don't…it’s going to  _hurt_ …well mostly me…but also definitely you? I’ve got some in my bag.”

“Of course you do.”

He draws away to find it. It feels good in his hand, better against his dick. Cold, but good. He works it up and down a few times, slicking himself.

“I can—” Brian, temporarily abandoned, turns, looks at him, reaches out a hand. “If you want me to—”

“Don’t fucking  _touch_  me,” Pat hisses, draws back.

But Brian's hands don’t follow him, they’re just grabbing at the lube, squirting some into his own palms. "I'm not, I'm not." Face red with embarrassment, he turns away from Pat, grabs at himself for a second, and then grunts, working a finger around the edge of his own asshole. “I’m just trying to…if you’re gonna…I’ve gotta get…opened up a little.”

Pat watches, stroking himself, as the kid fucks himself open, legs spread obscenely, face pressing into pillows.

He’s got two fingers in now, scissoring, and he’s clearly starting to enjoy himself.

“I’m a lot bigger than your finger, Gilbert,” Pat says doubtfully. “How do you know I’m gonna  _fit_?”

Brian snorts into the pillow. “It’ll be fine. I’ve had bigger.”

The laugh elicits from Pat a snarl, and he grabs the hips in front of him roughly, lines himself up, and pushes. He’s sudden, jerking in. It tears a little yelp out of Brian’s mouth, and then, when he adjusts, moves against the tight pressure, something like a sob.

“How do you like  _that_ ,” he presses down, sliding in further. He starts rocking back and forth, and the kid is biting into the pillows, stifling animalistic sounds.

It’s hot, and tight friction, and Pat lets himself relax into a punishing rhythm. Brian is pressing his hands against the headboard, to stop from sliding further forward, from banging his head into the wall; it only half works, he’s still knocking into it occasionally and producing little squeaks of surprise.

“You feel fucking  _good_ , Gilbert,” he swears, running a hand through his hair. “You’re tight. I could get used to this. To fucking some sense into you, when you get out of line.”

Brian’s body is shaking with the effort of staying upright, and pushing back against the thrusts. He’s crying, maybe. Or maybe those sounds are moans of pleasure. Pat’s not sure. He doesn’t care.

“I’m gonna cum in you now, slut,” he declares, smacking the smaller boy sharply on the ass. “Get ready.”

There’s no response, but he keeps plunging in, and after a moment…two…three…he feels himself seize, and jerk into the body, and he loses awareness for a second of everything except for heat and motion and warmth.

 

* * *

 

They both collapse onto the bed, Pat pulling out, and Brian flipping over, panting. It’s a few minutes before either of them can really move or speak. Brian goes first. “Pat, that was  _great_.”

“You okay?” Pat responds, guiltily. “Not too much? Want me to finish you off?”

“Already done,” Brian says sheepishly. “I came before you did, to be honest.”

“Ah,” Pat grins, shoves a hand under his shoulders. “So. Reviews?”

“Two thumbs up,” the kid snuggles into his arm. “Great character development. Very hot bully. Would let him explore his latent sexuality on my ass again.”

“I’m sure he’d enjoy it. You gonna be good, sitting down tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’m gonna feel it,” Brian grins. “First-timers, you know. Never know how to be gentle.”

Afterward, in the glow of dopamine and Brian’s giggles, Pat finds it’s easier to say the things that usually stick in his throat. “It was hot. You being a little cocky. Topping from the bottom.”

“Ooh,” Brian grins. “You liked that, huh? The slutty little theater kid, teaching the asshole jock a thing or two? Maybe we should run with that. I can top next time, if you want.”

“If you’re up for it,” Pat says, suddenly shy. He’s not sure if Brian  _does_  that. They’ve never done it before. He knows Brian likes—well, he likes a  _lot_  of things—but he doesn’t know if he’d like… _that_ …

Brian looks at him thoughtfully, calculating. Pat feels unguarded, bare.

“I don’t think I can throw you around. Not like you do with me. So either you’ve got to be good, or I’ve got to tie you down.”

Pat just came, he just did, but even then something twitches.

“Which one you wanna try first?”

 _First_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> \- sex: anal sex  
> \- BDSM: breathplay/choking,  
> \- language: homophobic slurs in a roleplay setting  
> \- (roleplay of) dub/con, bullying, coercive sex  
> \- kink: (roleplay of) teenage sex, safewording, boundary negotiation, rough sex, first times, wrestling


	4. - yoga -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> at gets stuck in _remedial yoga_. fuck. at least the teacher is hot?
> 
>    
>  _i lo-lo-love the way you bend / oh lord, i'd love to break you in_

The mat knocks against his calves in the elevator. Pat hates it.

It’s fucking  _embarrassing_. He doesn’t even know why he signed up for this in the first place, to be honest. It was a dumb resolution—to be more  _flexible_ —but once you sign up and give over the cash you’re kinda stuck going to class or just being angry at yourself for not having the guts to follow through.

The worst was when last week—the instructor had taken him aside.  _You look like you’re struggling a bit with your form, you’re going to hurt yourself. Let me give you some extra help, to make sure your body is working with you, not against you._

And of course, Pat couldn’t say  _no_ , so now he’s going to a goddamn  _private lesson_  because he can’t even figure out  _yoga_  without fucking it up completely. He’s got to go make an ass of himself, now, for an hour, with the youthful flexible friendly guru in his goddamn at-home studio or whatever.

He knocks on the apartment door. The smile that greets him is wide.

“Namaste,” says Brian.

Pat, not sure if he’s supposed to respond in kind, just says,“Hey.”

“Come in, come in—” Brian gestures into the apartment, which is very nice, small and airy and light and clean. Not a yoga studio, exactly: much more of a living room. There is space, though. The couch is pushed up against the wall and Brian’s mat is already laid out. “Make yourself at home. Can I get you some water?”

“I brought some,” Pat says, lifting up his water bottle.

“Good, good. The bathroom’s right that way, if you want to get dressed—”

“I’m already dressed,” says Pat, confused, because he is.

“Oh, no  _no_ ,” Brian tuts, reaching out to seize Pat’s shirtsleeve.

The expression is disapproving, and it makes Pat’s gut twist a little in embarrassment. He knows that his sweats are faded, sure, and he’s just wearing a plain cotton t-shirt which has maybe a hole or two, but isn’t this what most people wear to the gym?

He shoots a closer look at Brian, who is dressed—well. He’s wearing a white sleeveless shirt, but it’s not cotton—it’s thinner, finer, and hugs his chest, cuts a sharp neat line above his collarbone. His pants are thin as well, slim cherry-colored yoga tights. Pat doesn’t know where you would buy them. They have a pocket on the side for your cell phone. Even his hair looks good, just slightly damp and tucked behind his ears securely.

Brian looks—young, and chic, and very put-together. Pat feels out of his depth.

“Patrick, this absolutely won’t work. You need to wear something that  _fits_. Otherwise there’s no point. How am I supposed to see your  _body_? To see your lines? To help you.”

“Sorry.” He hates himself for blushing, for looking down to break that bright, focused, insistent eye contact. “I didn’t bring anything else—should we just schedule another time, or…”

“Don’t worry,” Brian smiles brightly. “I’m sure I’ve got something that’ll fit you. Just give me a minute.”

He disappears into the bedroom.

Pat is left, standing in the living room and feeling sloppy and out of place. This whole house is too young for him, too clean and fresh and—is that incense burning? Fucking hell. Pat honestly doesn’t even know what incense  _is_ —and it’s hard to be so awkward, when Brian is so perfectly at ease, moving smoothly in his sleek yoga clothes and barefoot.

 _Shit_. He was barefoot. Is Pat supposed to take his shoes off? After a second of hesitation, he does take them off, and his socks as well, and puts them near the door. He rolls out his mat, too, for good measure.

Brian emerges with a little ball of black cloth. “There you are. I’m sure they’ll fit. And you can just leave your shirt off.”

Pat hesitates. “I—”

“Don’t worry,” Brian waves off his nervousness with a casual hand, and that winning smile. “No other classmates here to worry about. Just me. No reason to be shy.”

Pat takes the clothes, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Thanks,” he says, and hightails it to the bathroom. He pulls his shirt off and examines his chest in the mirror. It’s skinny and pale, and his armpits have patches of black hair, and he worries that once they get started, he’ll get shiny and gross with sweat.

The pants are even worse. They’re also tights—a different cut than Brian is wearing, though—black, ending just under the knee, and a little…less forgiving, around the crotch. When he pulls them on, he has to take quite a few minutes just arranging himself, to make sure nothing is sticking out anywhere too badly. A quick red-faced glance up at the mirror confirms he’s halfway decent. This’ll have to do. If he takes any longer in here Brian will probably start to worry.

He steps out, quickly, before he loses the nerve, looks for approval.

Brian’s already started warming up, though. He’s sitting on his mat, cross-legged, eyes closed, hands pressed together at his chest. The TV is on in front of him—some youtube yogi in the same pose—but it’s paused, and he’s just breathing steadily in and out as if Pat isn’t there at all.

Pat doesn’t know whether to join in or let him finish, so he just stands, holding his clothes. The silence stretches on, until he finally can’t bear it. He coughs. “Um, I’m ready.”

Brian opens his eyes and smiles, that wide brilliant convincing smile—

_…I’m so glad you decided to play… _

and beckons Pat over. Pat sits.

“So this is going to be a bit different from class, Patrick,” Brian says. When he talks, he grasps Pat’s arm earnestly, in that way that some people do naturally, people whose skin doesn’t tingle funny whenever they brush strawberries or latex or another human being. “More didactic. Do you understand?

Pat feels stupid. “Um. No. Do you mean—“

Brian cuts him off, with maybe a hint of impatience. “I mean that I’m not going to just show you the poses and ask you to follow me. I need to be  _watching_  you. That’s what the video is for—you just follow along, and when something’s wrong, I’ll pause it and help you fix your form. Give you some hands-on guidance.”

A wisp of anxiety and  _something else_  floats up through Pat’s chest, and he dips his chin. “Sounds good.”

“Wonderful. Let’s start on all fours.”

Jesus.

Pat can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse, when Brian starts the video and stops touching him, draws back, presumably to watch him from an appropriate distance. He shuffles to mimic the girl on the screen doing cat-cow pose—easy enough,  _anyone_  should be able to do this, curl your spine and your head down and then flex it back up—and tries not to think about how he looks from behind.

Brian is there, suddenly, when he’s arching upward in cow—a hand drapes on the small of his back.

The video pauses. “Stay like that for a moment,” Brian murmurs. “We’ve got to fix a few things.”

Pat sniffs a breath out through his nose.

The hand stays in contact, but it’s moving, examining. “Get your knees a little wider, Patrick. You want them right under your hips. Head back. Come on. Spread your hands a bit—your fingers—really push through the floor.  _Ground_  yourself. Are you pushing through the tops of the feet?”

“I think…so?” Pat says, as he tries to follow Brian’s flurry of instructions.

“I don’t,” Brian says shortly. “If you were, your hips wouldn’t look like  _that_.”

Pat flushes a bit in shame as Brian stoops to correct him. He puts a hand under Pat’s belly, then another one square on his ass, and Pat jumps—

“ _Relax_ , Patrick. Stay still. Let’s fix this arch.”

—and tries to obey, but it’s hard to think straight when hands are pulling at his shoulders, adjusting his back, his belly. Brian makes little tutting hum sounds while he moves around, and Pat concentrates on  _not_  concentrating on those, as much as he possibly can.

“There we go.”

It’s fucking  _agony_ , arching up, with Brian behind him—

—but it’s  _worse_ , when he paces around to the front. Pat tries not to look at him. But Brian crosses his arms and cocks a reflective eyebrow, and it’s hard to look away, when he’s still polished and pretty and just a little disappointed.

“You have such a lovely neck, Patrick. You don’t think you could get any more length from it?”

Pat feels his cheeks burn—he’d forgotten about his front half, to be honest—and tries to crane his neck back the way the girl did, so effortlessly, in the video.

“There you go. Now, that looks good. Hold that.”

He does, and with his ass arched up and his neck stretched back and Brian staring at him he feels lewd, and perverted for feeling lewd, and no matter how he tries to shove away that thought it  _definitely_  is starting to get his dick interested.

“Good. If I let you drop into cat, will you be able to find this one again?”

“I think so,” Pat’s voice is strained.

“Do it,” Brian directs firmly. “A few times. Just back and forth. Let’s see how you remember.”

He watches, arms crossed, as Pat follows his instructions, trying to get back to this pose without thinking too hard about anything except feeling the exact same strain on his muscles as before.

“That’ll have to do,” Brian says. “We’ve got a lot to work on. Push up.”

The lack of compliment is damning, and Pat starts to sit up.

“No, no. Get into down dog, I mean.”

“Oh.” He should have guessed, he supposes. The girl had done that next, on the video. He tries to remember what she looked like, in downward-facing dog—to translate that to instructions for his own body—you get your knees off the ground, he knows that, and bend in a sort of sharp triangle shape—

“Straighten your legs a bit, Patrick. You can just stay on your toes, if you just can’t get the heels down.”

He does so, but—

“Arms straight too. And back. Sit back into it.”

he tries, but—

“Tidy up your lines.”

he doesn’t know what that  _means_ —

“Don’t look so rigid. This is a  _resting_  pose. I need to see some movement.”

Pat doesn’t know what to do, and freezes in uncertainty—

“Do you need help?”

“Yes,” Pat admits, softly. “I don’t know what to move, exactly.”

Brian steps up to his side and puts both hands on his ass firmly. Pat doesn’t know if it’s all right to shiver.

“All right, Patrick. I’m going to help you up here, so you don’t lose the shape. Okay?” His words are slow, as if he’s talking to someone very stupid, and Pat doesn’t know how the palms on his ass are supposed to help with shape but he also doesn’t say anything about it. “So you just ignore me and concentrate on your legs. Sort of pedal your heels, bending your knees. Move your legs around a little bit, whatever feels good. Find some space.”

Pat tries to do…whatever that means…while ignoring…how Brian is moving his palms up and down slowly, fingers skating over to his left hipbone to grip, dig in the fingertips, ever so slightly…other hand rubbing suggestively toward his crack…Pat closes his eyes and breathes, trying to move his legs and toes and knees in approximately the right way.

Brian hums in approval, and despite how his hands are roaming, Pat’s shoulders relax a bit in desperate relief.  _Fuck_. At least he can figure something out on his own.

“That’s very good, you’re doing great,” Brian says, at the same time his hand caresses Pat’s ass, stroking very firmly, all the way down to his inner thigh, where it pinches. “Found that space after all.”

He sucks in a breath. “I—”

But then, as quick as a flash, Brian’s letting him go, stepping back, as if it never happened. “What’s wrong, Patrick?”

“Um. Nothing.”

“Good.” Brian sounds satisfied. “You really have a lovely line, when you get it right. So  _long_.”

Pat says nothing, because his ass is up in the air and his dick is hard and his brain is basically just a frayed wire, connected to electricity, but useless, just sparking.

“I think you got that one. Let’s take a break.”

Pat’s glad to scramble to his feet and leave behind his pride in an absolute shambles on the floor.

“Why don’t you get a drink,” Brian suggests. Pat steps aside, grateful, and takes a sip from his water bottle with shaking hands and looks away for a few seconds.

“You feeling good?” Brian asks and—

_—it’s him, in that moment, who asks, soft and a little bit shy, brushing his hair out of his face in uncertainty. Pat nods quick, but checks himself over. He’s feeling—well, horny and humiliated—both of which are familiar feelings that throb together, close to his heart—and also weird mix of stupid and clumsy and attractive in the wake of Brian’s predatory-helpful touches and condescending manipulations._

_He’d been half-joking, when he said yes to this. It was Brian’s idea, Brian who threw out the idea of strict dance teacher, Brian who adjusted to yoga because Pat chokes at the thought of moving to music, Brian who cocked an eyebrow and looked at him and said straight up, “When we do this, do you want to feel good, or do you want to feel bad that you feel so good?”_

_When he’d asked, Pat was useless, and just blushed, and ducked his head, because he couldn’t possibly ever answer that fucking question honestly._

_"Okay, okay got it got it,” Brian had said, because he never needs something from Pat that Pat doesn’t want to give._

“Pat? Are you okay? Is it…good?”

It’s good. He likes it, God help him. He wants more.

“Yes,” Pat says emphatically, and then corrals his tone. He needs to get back to the moment—to feeling—the enthusiasm doesn’t fit here—he needs to remember—

his anxiety—his uncertainty about where Brian’s hands might go next—

what he might correct—

the desperate pathetic little hit of happiness, when Brian tells him he’s doing something right—

He takes a breath. “Thank you for being so patient, Brian. I know I’m a slow learner.”

The grin that answers is only a glint of mischievous, before it’s wide and kind and helpful again. “Don’t say that about yourself, Patrick. You’re just a beginner! You’ve got a lot of growing to do, but you’re really doing very well. I can see so much improvement already.”

Brian is touching him again—he keeps  _touching_  Pat mid-conversation, while making aggressively friendly eye-contact—touching him before Pat even realizes that he’s gotten close. Looking down at Brian’s hand on his chest reminds him that he’s not wearing a shirt—how he’d forgotten that, weirdly—

“Are you ready for something a bit more challenging?”

Pat swallows. “I think so. How…how do you want me?”

“Wonderful,” Brian grins. “On your back.”

 

* * *

 

Bridge pose is actually kind of in Pat’s wheelhouse—he’s good at stuff like that, usually—shoulderstands and headstands—but Brian is difficult to please, and listening to his constant little adjustment advice isn’t made easier by the fact that Pat can actually see his face this time. Even upside down, it's easy to read all his little disapproving looks and eyebrow raises.

Also, Pat’s bucking his hips up at the ceiling and clearly half-hard, so there’s that, too.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Brian says carefully. “How challenging is this, so far?”

“I’m good,” Pat huffs, and he is. He’s red with effort and embarrassment, slick with sweat, but it’s not very difficult, to press his hips up and his shoulders into the mat. It compresses his neck a bit, but that’s not nearly as big of a problem as Brian’s mere  _existence_ , which threatens to throw off his focus nearly every second.

“Can we deepen the stretch a little?” Brian asks, voice lower than it’s been before, and Pat feels funny, but says  _sure_.

Brian steps, very gently, up so that his toes are nudging Pat’s shoulders, and therefore Pat is looking right up at his crotch. He bites his cheek, but Brian doesn’t seem to notice, staring down at Pat’s body thoughtfully.

“Are you able to clasp your hands?”

“I—think so—” Pat tries, and finds he can, if he pushes his hips up a bit more and takes more weight on his shoulders. It’s a  _lot_ , but he can do it.

“That’s very good,” Brian says from above him. “Beautiful.”

It makes his dick twitch, the suggestive way Brian makes that word sound. He closes his eyes against the blush that he knows is probably leaking down his chest, turning his pale skin red.

Because his eyes are closed, he doesn’t know Brian’s going to touch him until he does—

a hand brushing solidly against his dick in a way that really  _can’t_  be an accident—

—in this position, he can’t really jerk in surprise, although he knows he twitches—

the hand curves around his thigh, grabbing it, not pulling hard, just slightly holding his hips up, correcting his shape the tiniest centimeter—

the hand stays there, clasping his thigh, back of Brian’s knuckles pressed against his length immodestly.

“Um—”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Brian says solicitously, which  _of course_  makes Pat instantly humiliated, like it’s  _his fault_  that his dick is twitching against Brian’s fingers. “It’s perfectly natural. Some people find the practice very erotic.”

Pat has no idea what to say to that.

Brian moves his hand—not away—that’d be too easy—just brushes, adjusts it slightly. “You’re doing great. You have excellent shoulder flexibility, Patrick. How does that feel? Good?”

“Yes,” Pat says, because probably…that’s what he’s supposed…? to say…?

“Perfect,” Brian says, and Pat can hear the smile. “You’re nice and warmed up now. I think you can handle one more. Something a little advanced. Right?”

He know he sounds stupid, panting, breathy, but fuck, Brian— “Okay.”

“Lovely. Let’s get you on your knees again.”

* * *

Brian makes him watch the whole video for crow pose, all the way through, kneeling on the mat, before he even gets to try. It looks hard. Forearm strength. Balance. Pat thinks he can do it, probably.

But probably not if he keeps  _missing key details_ , because Brian’s hand is on his shoulder, stroking—

“…and that’s very important,” the video voice says, and Pat fucking missed it, because Brian just pressed his knee up against Pat’s back—

“Pay attention,” Brian chides, and Pat tries, he  _really_  does—

but then something hoves into his peripheral vision, and he has to turn to look at it, just a bit, because he’s nervous and sweaty and Brian is hovering behind him in constant tense contact and about to do who-knows-what to whatever part of Pat’s body he pleases—

Brian tsks at him and grabs his hair.

“I said  _pay attention_ , Patrick. If you can’t even watch, how are you supposed to get it right?”

“Sorry.” Pat says, and he hates how small his voice sounds.

_…well, you hate it and you love it, his dick cuts in to say. The way Brian’s hand doesn’t leave the crown of his head. Holding him by the hair. Forcing him to look exactly where Brian wants…_

“Well,” Brian says doubtfully, tweaking Pat’s hair. “If you’re not going to pay attention, maybe we’re just done here. I don’t want you to overextend yourself.”

“No—no. I got it,” Pat stammers. “Sorry. I can do it.”

“I don’t know.”

Brian lets him go, steps away. It makes his stomach drop, the sudden coldness, in his tone. He feels every bead of sweat on his clammy skin, now, and he’s painfully aware that his nipples and his dick are hard. Without even being  _touched_. He knows Brian’s jerking him around, he  _knows_  it—but it still gets to him—

He pushes his hair back with a shaking hand. “Please? Let me try?”

Brian just gestures his assent, and Pat is stupidly, stupidly, pathetically, frantically grateful.

He lines up on his hands and toes, the way the girl did, on the video. He’s also really grateful that this position is going to be kind of difficult, will require some actual strength. It gives him something to concentrate on, that’s not the swirl of painful pleasure, the hot shame beating his chest and between his thighs.

He grounds through his palms. Whatever that means.

Getting his knees on the shelf of his elbows is a little tricky. He’s got to open his hips a bit, rock up on his toes. Tumbling forward out of this would be—well, the  _things_  Brian would say—

Anyway. Focus. He props his knees up, wide, gets them comfortable where they will rest. Slowly leans forward, taking more weight on his bent forearms. It’s sort of the same muscle group as a pushup, but more sustained, and the balance is tough but he knows he can do it.

He curls one leg up. The first one is easy. He doesn’t shake for more than a second, before it feels fine. Balanced. Good. The other one is going to be the trick.

Shifting his weight slowly, he tries to get the other foot in the air. Falls back on his toes.  _Fuck_.

No. Okay. He can do this. One foot first—then the other—

—the third time, he gets it, and it’s a lot—the arm strength, but also the pressure on his wrists, the work of trying to balance, to concentrate—

he can hold it, though—he’s strong enough, and his breaths are even and deep—

it feels really  _good_ , actually, to fucking nail something,  _finally_ —

— _one day_ , he thinks,  _I can probably do a handstand from this, that’d be fucking sick—_

but not today.

Today, he holds it for as long as he’s able, body shaking but strong, then his wrists start to protest so he hops back down. When he flips his head up, hair flying, he’s grinning and looking for Brian’s smile— _I fucking did it, you asshole—_

—and his eyes go wide when he sees Brian—

he’s on the couch, watching, and he  _is_  smiling—

but his dick’s out, too, and he’s stroking himself languidly—

—well, shit. He  _had_  been quiet for a while.

“Excellent work,” Brian says, with eyes shining, and a laugh playing across his lips. “Don’t mind me. Form was perfect. You just got me a bit excited. You know how it is.”

He glances pointedly at Pat’s crotch, and Pat finds himself speechless.

“Come here,” Brian beckons. “We’re can cool down together. You’ve had quite a workout.”

Pat just nods, and sits on the couch next to Brian, who’s still stroking himself. The kid hooks an arm around Pat’s hip, draws him close, overlapping his knee over Pat’s and pulling his legs apart a bit. They’re thoroughly intertwined before Pat even thinks to ask what’s going on, and when Brian’s hand strokes across his crotch he  _knows_  what’s going on, and he fucking  _approves whole-heartedly_ , so he doesn’t say anything at all.

“You did so well,” Brian murmurs into his ear. He has to bend, to reach Pat’s dick and pull it out—his arm is tight across Pat’s waist, and their hips knock together, and Pat’s toes can feel Brian’s toes squirming as they push his foot aside.

Pat moans, when Brian finally touches him properly, getting a bold hand around his cock—

he feels like his skin must be  _burning_  hot, with how cool Brian’s hand feels—

it’s easy just to surrender to the push and pull, especially when Brian is murmuring, “That’s good, very good, just let yourself relax” and jerking them both off at the same time, in parallel.

He loves Brian’s hand—yeah it’s just a hand but—it’s beautiful. Strong confident long fingers, grip strength, the little hard callouses that trip along the bottom of his dick, stroking strange sounds out of him—and the pacing—it’s incredible—everything about this kid is like a composition—building drama—the way he squeezes hard hard hardhardhard and then lets off, teasing, before the second verse—

Brian lets go, and Pat whimpers, glances at him.

The kid’s raising an eyebrow, and then he’s licking his palm lasciviously, sucking his own fingers, getting them nice and wet for Pat—

—and the hand is back, and it’s even  _better_  now, if such a thing could be possible—

—it builds up, the tension, until Pat is grunting and trying to choke out a warning—

“Finish for me,” Brian instructs, before he can get it out—

and Pat does.

 

* * *

 

At some point Brian must have come as well, and possibly there was also kissing, in between, but Pat is a little unclear about when exactly that happened, because he’s just closing his eyes and leaning back and breathing, letting himself return to his sweaty body and the feeling of the couch sticking to his back and the parameters of  _this_  reality, which is absent one randy yoga teacher but infinitely more full of solicitous boyfriend, fluttering around him and petting his hair and bringing him water and cleaning him up and offering to help him change back into his sweats, if he wants, and was that okay? Are you…okay?

Pat honestly has forgotten that he’s supposed to respond to questions until Brian’s hand shakes his shoulder a little bit and his brain comes online in its listening functionality.

“…ere?—Pat? Can you just—like, a thumbs up? Or anything, really…”

He opens his eyes, because Brian sounds genuinely nervous, as if he’s broken something without realizing it, and Pat knows that feeling. He fights his way back to the world.

“Great,” he blurts out. “ _Fuck_. You were great.”

Brian’s eyebrows smooth out a little bit, but he’s still looking into Pat’s face with a screwed-up expression like he’s not sure whether he is being lied to. Like he’s not sure if he’s gone too far. Indulged himself too much. Chosen the right combination of words, to unlock that sick-happy-bad-good place inside Pat, the place that only Brian even knows he  _has_.

“I—I wasn’t too mean?”

“Brian,” Pat grabs him firmly. “You are the hottest fucking perverted yoga teacher in the world. I nearly came before you even  _touched_  me.”

Brian smiles at this, and the tenseness drains from him a little.

“Maybe Sting was right all along,” Pat says thoughtfully, to make Brian laugh. “Maybe you and I should get into yoga. I think I kind of get it, now.”

Brian does laugh, then, and pumps a fist in the air.

“Yessss! I did it. I friggin' did it! God, I was afraid—I was so not sure—what if I said something stupid and like—fucked up your back—I’ve never actually  _done_  yoga before, so…”

“Damn. You’re a good actor.” Pat tweaks Brian’s cheek. “Smart move, with the video. Was all that patter just like, bullshit then, because goddamn, you seemed really confident—”

“Sorta bullshit,” Brian gives a bashful smile, “I might have done some youtubing.”

“No shit. Well, good research skills. As usual.”

Brian’s grin is growing more cheeky by the moment. Kid fucking loves praise. “Gonna be honest—I just googled ‘sexy yoga poses’—and then kinda—went from there—”

“Did you also google ‘how to neg someone who you just forced to get naked’ or is that just one of your natural strengths.”

Brian pouts. “I wasn’t  _negging_. I was giving you corrective feedback.”

“Such a fucking smartass,” Pat laughs. “I know you said you’re out of practice. But you really are good. I’d probably let you go harder, even. It’s really easy, to lose myself in…wanting not to disappoint you.”

“It’s all about the costumes,” Brian deflects the compliment, plucking at his shirt. “Trust me, it helps.”

“You and your props,” Pat murmurs, pulling Brian’s head closer and mussing up his hair. “Speaking of. Let’s go get cleaned up, and then I’ll go back to telling you how talented you are.”

“It’s a date!” Brian is just…too much, grinning up at him through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> \- sex: mutual masturbation,  
> \- BDSM: humiliation, domination,  
> \- kinks: correction and coercion, scolding, embarrassment.
> 
> \- roleplay of: non-consensual groping, exploitative mentor relations


	5. - home -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat gets into some trouble. brian pays the price. twist: he likes it?!?
> 
>  
> 
> _it was a rainy night / we took a taxi to your mother's home / she went to Florida and left you / with your father's gun, alone_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gratitude to poppyseedheart and turnontheghostlight, who found literally dozens of typos after id read this junk 30 times. and are also just very nice.

Usually, Brian does all the pre-pro for their little scenes.

He rents the AirBnB. Picks up a letterman’s jacket from goodwill. Sketches out a couple ideas—not a script per se, but some basic motivations _. I’m the hot neighbor kid who’s house-sitting, okay? And you’re the gruff stepdad who comes in early and finds me jerking off on the couch._

They hammer it all out, laughing. What goofy shit their characters might say. How fast or slow. Whether Pat should be mean or nice. Whether Brian should be a brat—he’s great at that—or whether he should work on how to make his lower lip tremble and his eyes wide like he’s never ever done this before.

They’re high, one day, and playing Smash, when Brian gives Pat an idea.

“You’re so  _sexy_ ,” Brian gushes, after losing three matches in a row. “You gotta stop  _distracting_  me.”

“Sorry,” Pat teases, trying to stifle how fucking good it feels, when he says things like that. “We can work out some of that energy first, if you want—?” His hand snakes up Brian’s arm, grabbing for his controller. “I know you’ve probably got, like, four million elaborate ideas, but if you want, I can just—”

Brian yields quickly, and leans back to let Pat grope at him.

“Ooh, Pat Gill, are you thinking…should I…?”

“Just stop thinking for a bit.” Pat grabs a wrist, twists Brian into his lap, nestles his chin in the kid’s neck. “Let me drive. You don’t have to work so hard to plan everything.”

Brian throws his head back with a happy sigh, lets Pat’s mouth draw little panting sounds from him. “I’d like that.” Then, maybe because he’s smoked more than Pat, he keeps mumbling. “I want you to—I like—sometimes—when you do the thinking for me—”

“Yeah?”

Pat’s bite isn’t that hard, but it makes Brian shiver anyway. “I love it—when you first walk in—and I know we’ve talked about what you’re gonna do—but you just kinda—drop into character—and I don’t know what’s coming.”

“I get carried away around you.”

“I like it.”

“You want me to surprise you, sometime?” Pat murmurs, pressing down his palm.

The hips below him jerk up. “I want you to scare me,” Brian keens. “Not today. I’m too high. I’ll giggle. But…someday—”

Pat files this away for later, as they get into some more innocent mischief for the night. It’s nearly a month, before he works up the nerve.

 

* * *

 

Brian isn’t the best at situational awareness, not with his earbuds in, walking home from the subway, bundled up with a bag of groceries in each hand. It’s easy to follow him, and when he puts down his bags in the snow and pulls off his gloves to find his keys, it’s even easier to step up behind him and get close before he notices anyone’s there.

“You’re Brian Gilbert, yeah?” Pat says from only a foot away. Although he wants to scare Brian he doesn’t want to actually  _scare_  him, so he makes sure that his voice is gruff, but familiar.

“Ye—Pat…?” He freezes, when he feels the circle of steel push into his neck. “Oh,  _shit_.”

“Good. You’re a smart kid. You know what that is. So don’t turn around,” Pat says, lowly.

“Wh-wh—” Some question is sticking in Brian’s throat, but his teeth are chattering, maybe from the cold, maybe from fear. 

Pat taps his shoulder, warningly. “Don’t make a fuss. Just open the door and let’s get inside. Slowly.”

Brian’s hands fumble in his pocket, and it takes a couple tries for him to get his keys to work. He swears under his breath, again.

“That’s it. Let me follow you in,” Pat directs. “Shut the door behind you. No sudden moves.”

They make their way into Brian’s living room—it’s a bit messy, not gross, just lived-in. Pat tries to take in the surroundings quickly, to scan them as if they’re unfamiliar.

“You live with people?” he asks, as he guides them forward.

“Yeah,” Brian says quickly. Too quickly. “And they’ll be home soo—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Pat pushes him up against the wall, uses a free hand to feel around in his pockets. He finds the cell phone, takes it. “I’m not a fuckin'  _rookie_. I know you’re home alone this weekend, Brian.  _Laura_  and  _Jonah_  are out of town, right?”

“How do you know.”

Although he hasn’t been told to, Brian keeps his hands flat on the wall, visible. Good instincts.

Pat ignores him. “Take your coat off. And your shoes. Get comfortable. This is gonna take a  _while_.”

Brian shivers, but obeys, shucking off his oversized coat, his scarf, his shoes. Pat guides him, strips him down to just his undershirt and boxers and socks. No tricks hidden in any secret pockets, then.

Pat pushes aside the pile of clothes.

“Get on the floor. Put your hands on your head.”

He obeys, moving slow, getting down on one knee first. Pat doesn’t push him, just lets him prostrate himself face-down on the tile. It’s a bit cold in the house. He’s shivering.

 _KKrrrkkkgghhhh_ —

The sound of tape being ripped makes the kid jerk. Pat puts a warning foot on the small of his back.

“Stay down.”

He drops the stuff he’s carrying, and it’s easy to force the kid’s arms behind him, press the soft parts of his wrists together, and wrap them firmly with bondage tape. He uses plenty, not just on the wrists, but well up the forearms. It's not gonna stick like the real stuff, but it'll hold for a while, at least. 

With a firm hand, he grabs Brian's hair, pulls him up to his knees. The kid squeaks a little, but comes along. His hands are testing his bonds, moving, finding them secure. 

“What do you want with me,” Brian's voice skates high with adrenaline.

Pat says nothing. Just pulls&mdashrough, with force&mdashup and forward, so Brian stumbles follow him without falling flat on his face. There’s an office chair at the desk on the left, but it looks like cheapy plastic garbage, so he pushes past. He finds a weird wooden chair in the corner, vintage or whatever, and shoves him into it.

“Please—” Brian tries again, as Pat pushes his knees apart and tapes his ankles to the claw-footed wood. His voice is still high, almost a yelp. “ _Please_ , I’ll give you whatever—I don’t know what you  _want_ —”

Pat looks up at him, coolly, and raises an eyebrow. “Do I have to gag you?”

Brian shuts his mouth with a snap. His eyes widen. He's quiet, but he's still asking questions, somehow, as Pat finishes binding him to the chair, tape around his knees spreading his legs wide. 

Then he  _wrenches_  the chair out of the corner, turns it to face the wall, grunting with the effort, the weight. He feels Brian tense when he’s not visible, jumping each time his hands touch. He wraps a few more coils of tape around the upper chest, the arms.

It’s a good view, from above. Tense, sweating, arching back against the chair, his hands trapped behind him. The mop of messy hair. Brian’s legs spread wide—he’s straining against his boxers, which Pat pointedly ignores. He puts a warm hand around Brian’s neck and doesn’t push. Just holds it for a second.

Brian’s breathing through his mouth, hard, almost hiccuping. He’s trying to look up to see Pat’s face, but his hair’s in the way, and he can’t push it aside. He tries to shake his head, but Pat’s hand on his neck holds him too still. He’s helpless.

Pat’s thumb strokes against the side of his neck, soothingly.

“I’ve got bad news for you, Brian Gilbert.”

A thready little laugh of fear sneaks out, but mostly the kid is silent. Lets him have his moment.

“Well, and good news. Which do you want first?”

A beat, or two. “The…bad…?”

Pat runs his fingernails over Brian’s scalp, pulls his hair back, exposes his neck.

“Someone owes my boss a lot of money. Someone you know. Someone who might not want to see you get  _hurt_.”

Brian whimpers. “I can…I’ll pay…”

Pat laughs. “You ain’t got this kind of money, kid. You’re just collateral in this little negotiation. Sorry about that. Them’s the breaks.”

Brian closes his eyes, surrenders, lets out a sigh of breath. “What are you gonna do to me?”

“Well, that’s the good news,” Pat grins, torques his head back further, cruel. It’s the perfect height, to push his clothed erection against the kid's cheek. “First strike, you’re gonna get off with a warning.”

“What kind of warning.” Brian’s voice is a hoarse whisper.

“We’ll see where the night takes us, ” Pat chuckles, and ruffles his hair with sardonic affection. “My boss lets me improvise the details.”

_He steps away, then. Grabs his bag, but moves it to the table behind Brian. Where he can’t turn and see. Pat undresses a bit, pulls off his shoes, his coat, gets down to shirtsleeves and slacks. He pretends to be rustling for things, picking them up, laying them out, but really he’s just making noise, watching Brian, collecting his thoughts._

_Brian’s hard, that’s for sure—Pat brushed against him while tying him up—so that’s good. All the trembling and stuttering and whimpering: it might have freaked Pat out, a few months ago, but these days he knows that means Brian is loving it. It’s silence and stillness he needs to watch out for._

_The kid isn’t still, though. He's never fuckin' still. Pat know what he’s up to. He’s worming around in his bonds, testing them. Pat sees him rock his toes forward, just a smidge, figuring out if he can even attempt to stand. His fingers are not overtly working at the tape, that’s too obvious—but his wrists are pulling and twisting, just a bit, every now and again, trying to work themselves loose by centimeters._

_It’s been a couple minutes. Before too long he needs to check for circulation, position. He’ll work that in to his schtick. He planned that. But another idea—he hadn’t been serious about the gag, not really—he just brought it for show. Brian needs to be able to safeword…_

_but the way his eyes lit up …maybe he can make this work…_

Pat’s been thinking so long that he’s gone silent. “Are you—are you still there? What are you—what are you doing—?”

He doesn’t say anything, but in his socks he can pad quietly up and grab the kid’s face without him realizing how close he’s gotten.

Brian jumps, as much as he can, and swears in surprise, under Pat’s fingers. “ _Fuck_!”

“You’re too loud,” Pat says matter-of-factly.

“Sorry—sorry—I’ll be quiet—”

“You will.” Pat intones, and then he’s prying the kid’s teeth open forcefully. “Open up.”

There’s a moment or two when Brian thinks about trying to bite him, he can feel it, but it’s easy to keep him from having the choice, from this angle, easy to tilt his head back and push his jaw down. He rakes a nail across the kid’s tongue, roughly, just because he can.

“— _hlleathe_ —” Brian gasps, when he feels something hard pressing in alongside Pat’s fingers..

“Be a good boy, now. You can take it.”

The ball gag just fits between his teeth, and Pat adjusts it carefully, checking that the straps don’t cut too much, on the sides, when he buckles it. Brian makes little sounds of protest, but certainly not any  _words_.

Pat steps around to the front, to admire his handiwork. “Oh, that’s a pretty picture. Let’s send it to your boyfriend, hmm? See if he’s starting to regret his mistakes.”

He steps back a pace, with Brian’s phone, and pretends to snap a picture. He  _wants_  a picture, of Brian looking half-panicked and half-indignant and half-aroused, struggling against his bindings and dripping drool, but he hasn’t  _technically_  asked, so he decides to leave that just for show.

“Now. Come here.”

Brian glares at him, as if to say  _how, asshole_.

“Saucy, aren’t you? I’ll come to you, then.”

He steps forward, pushing into Brian, reaching behind his back to feel for his hands. They’re almost free, actually, loosened enough by his struggles that he could conceivably wrench them out.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he breathes in Brian’s ear. “You want to use your fingers for something? Cause I have a few ideas.”

He cuts just the wrists loose, quickly, and jerks the right one forward, retaping it to the arm of the chair.

Brian’s other hand fights itself free, scratches futilely at him for a few seconds, while he's handling the other. The kid has no fingernails, and he barely manages to knock Pat’s glasses askew, to scrabble at the ball gag buckle, trying to figure it out.

He moans pitifully when Pat chuckles and captures his wrist.

“Stop it, you. Maybe, if you’re good, hmm? No reason you have to get hurt, here. If you cooperate.”

Brian nods fervently, agrees, and forces himself to be still. Pat presses the roll of tape into his right hand. “Hold that.” He clasps his fingers around it—it’s a bit heavy, when it drops on this floor it’ll make a thud—“Good. Now, as long as you still wanna cooperate, you just keep holding that, all right? And if you let it drop, I’m going to stop. You understand?”

He locks eyes with Brian, checks to make sure that he gets a firm nod. The glance he gets—it shoves aside the adrenaline arousal for a moment—is affectionate, comforting.  _I get it. You’re doing good. Go on._

Pat straddles the chair, putting a fair bit of his weight on Brian’s lap. He pulls the loose hand to his belt, and leaves it there. “Now. You wanna guess what to do? I know you’re a smart kid.”

Brian’s fingers don’t hesitate. He’s unbuckling, already, and fiddling with buttons. It’s tricky for him, left-handed. Pat’s weight probably doesn’t help, and him being so close. And also, him leaning forward, to drag his stubble across the kid’s face and nip wickedly at the lips forced open against the gag. Look, he can’t resist forever.

“Get me out,” he directs, as the zipper comes open. “ _Gentle_. You squeeze anything, it’s gonna go bad for you.”

Brian nods against his face, slips him out  _so_  so carefully, fingertips feather-light. He just holds Pat’s dick, loosely, barely brushes a finger against the wet, sticky tip.

Pat pushes his face to the side to get at his neck, his ear. “Good boy. Jerk me nice and slow.”

He starts to, but stops suddenly with a stifled gasp when Pat bites down on his neck, starts working on a hickey, sucking and pulling hard. It’ll be dark, on Brian’s light skin. He’s easy to mark up.

“I want you to  _remember_  this. I want you to tell your boyfriend about it. About what I did to you.”

The pressure is good—light, but good—as Brian tentatively speeds up. His breaths are ragged, he’s making little sniffling whines, and Pat can feel his erection straining below him. He needs to make a call, here, on what to do next—he thinks he should probably get himself out of the way first, so he can focus—but he doesn’t want to make a mess in Brian’s living room. Okay. Okay. He’s got a plan.

He pulls back to get going on it, looks at Brian’s face. Fuck.  _Fuck_. He’s crying—

—this almost flips Pat out, he startles—he’s halfway through asking “are you okay?” when—

Brian scrunches his nose (that flirty little scrunch) and  _winks_ —

—and then goes back to crying without so much as a pause.

Fucking hell. That’s it then. No more mister nice guy.

Pat draws back, steps away. He gets a condom, quick, from his bag, and slides it on himself, listening to the sound of Brian picking at the tape, behind him. Absolutely incorrigible.

He steps back in front. Brian’s hand stills, guiltily.

“All right, Houdini. Finish me off, and then maybe I’ll let you go.”

He presses himself into Brian’s hand, and lets him work back up to tight pressure. It’s easy to lose himself, kissing and sucking up and down the kid’s neck, leaving marks wherever he feels like it.

When he comes he grunts “ _fuck_ ,” and tries not to let all his weight collapse on Brian’s lap. It’s tough.

* * *

 

It’s tough, but he gets up, eventually.

Wanders back behind Brian, to the kitchen. Throws away the condom. Washes his hands. Opens the fridge boredly. There’s a few beers, so he grabs one and cracks it open. Takes a swig.

He figures it’ll take about a minute for him to get something free, so he just sneaks up again, as quietly as possible. Brian’s trying to be discreet. He’s tossed the tape on his lap, and is trying to worm his right wrist out from underneath where it’s bound—it’s hard to tear, and the movements are too obvious if he tries to unwrap it properly. It’s a struggle, but with his left hand pulling, he finally manages it, yanks his hand out—

Pat immediately catches both his wrists, from behind, and Brian moans in despair.

“Thanks, kid. Convenient.”

He grabs the tape from Brian’s lap and pulls the hands above his head, rubs the wrists, checks for color, circulation, and then tapes them together, in front of him, this time.

“Let’s chat about what happens next.”

Unbuckling the gag, he eases it out of Brian’s mouth. His lips are a little red, along the edges, but not raw, just pink from pressure. He rubs it, once, just to check, but it seems fine. The kid’s chin is covered in drool, and Pat wipes his wet hand off on Brian’s hair.

“I got you off,” Brian says, after working his stiff jaw around for a moment. “You said—will you let me go, now?”

Pat rests a hand on his shoulder. “Hmmm. Let me think about it.”

He pauses, waits, until Brian’s fingers are twitching and he can’t  _bear_  not saying something. “ _Please_. You can—you can just—leave—I got the warning.”

“Did you?” Pat says, loosely gathering a handful of hair.

“Yes!” Brian squeaks, as Pat reaches down to grab something, pushes a circle of steel against his neck again. Reminding him. “I did, I did.  _Please_ —”

“Okay then. Here’s what you’re going to do. Listen close, now.”

Brian pauses, attentively, trying to quiet his ragged breathing.

“I’m going to cut you loose. Not your hands, yet. Just your feet. And you’re going to walk to the bedroom. And lie on your bed. Face up. And put your hands over your head. And just stay still. You got that?”

“And you won’t hurt me—if I—?”

“As long as you do what I say. No funny business, hmm?”

“No,” Brian nods. “I swear.”

“Good. Now, for a little insurance—” he pulls out a handkerchief, doubles it, and ties it firmly around Brian’s eyes. He submits to this without protest, even when Pat draws it tight.

“Can you see?” he asks, bending around to inspect Brian’s face from the front.

“No,” Brian says. Pat flicks at his nose, to see if he’s lying, but he doesn’t flinch..

“There. Now you remember what you’re going to do?”

“Lie down on the bed. D-don’t try anything.”

“Good boy. Here we go, then.”

He cuts Brian’s ankles free, and his thighs, with bandage scissors. The kid is tense, still, letting him cut everything first, before he makes any shadow of a movement.

 _He thinks you’re using a pocketknife, Pat,_  his brain supplies.  _He knows you have one. That’s more on brand._ He files that away for later.

When he shoves Brian’s back, he stands, falteringly. He reaches his bound hands out in front of him, feeling the way forward as he walks. The rooms are familiar, though, and not very large, so it’s not particularly difficult. He finds his way to the bedroom, the bed. Stretches his arms up, gripping white-knuckled onto the headboard.

The stretch has his shirt rucking up at the bottom, exposing a streak of skin. His sock-clad heels are slipping on the sheets, a bit—not exactly trying to push his hips upward, but not  _not_  doing that, either. He’s damp through his boxers and vibrating with excitement, but quiet, for the most part.

“You’re real worked up,” Pat observes. “I think I’m gonna take care of that for you.”

“Don’t,” Brian pants, and flexes, in a voice that means  _quite_  the opposite.

“Stay still, unless you want to get cut,” Pat warns, in a tone that brooks no argument.

He steps close, grabs the hem of the shirt, and presses an edge against Brian’s belly. It’s just bandage scissors, but they’re cold metal, and Pat doesn’t think Brian can probably tell the difference, from the way he freezes and gasps. He pauses. Waits for a safeword. Doesn’t hear one. Keeps going.

He bunches the shirt in his hand, cuts through it slowly, using the sharp side of the blade more like a knife than what it’s meant for. Brian holds his breath the whole time, making only occasional motionless whimpers, when Pat’s fingers brush sensitive spots.

“Good,” Pat approves, when he shucks open the white undershirt and reveals the chest underneath. He traces a nail around a nipple and looks up at Brian’s face. It’s strained; he’s biting his lip with the effort of staying still, of being so aroused, for so long, without being really touched. “Very good. Now, stay still for this part too. It’d be a shame, to carve you up, but it would send the message.”

Brian whimpers as Pat’s hands shift to his boxers, presses, almost accidentally, against his dick. The effort of not moving now is tangible, but he stays quite still, knuckles whitening in their tight grip above his head. Pat doesn’t hurry to cut the boxers off, letting his hands and the cold metal touch here and there, as if he’s thinking of the best angle to approach.

Finally, Pat exposes him completely, dragging the fabric roughly across the tip of his dick. He’s naked, now, nipples hard with both arousal and cold, dick throbbing and body arching up to find Pat’s hands.

“Let me get one more picture,” Pat says wickedly, although he doesn’t have Brian’s phone on him anymore. He just says it because he knows it’ll make Brian sob. “So you can remember how good you were for me.”

Brian trembles and hitches below him. It's beautiful,  _beautiful_ , how strung out he is with need and tears. Every theatrical bone in his sweet little body is conspiring to drag out this cold sweat of fear and lust, to disguise his pitiful whimpers as begging for Pat to stop and not to  _go on, go on._

Pat sighs in happiness.

“All right, now. I think I’m almost done. Let me just give you a few more things to do, and then it’ll be like I was never here. No one gets hurt.”

“Thank you,” Brian pants. “Please. Anything.”

“Good boy. Now. Touch your nipples.”

Brian takes his bound hands down, shaking as he grabs them with his fingers, rolling them over his thumb.

“Squeeze a little harder. I want to  _see_  it.”

He does, biting his tongue at the same time. Stifling a sound.

“Good. Now move a little further down. Get those fingers around your dick.”

Brian moves them obediently, wrapping them around himself, but not squeezing or moving in the slightest. Not until he’s told.

“What a good listener. Rub over your tip, mmm? And tell me how that feels.”

“It’s—it’s good—hard—sticky—” Brian says softly.

“Like when you had your hands on mine?” Pat laughs. “Okay. Now, jerk yourself off. But go slow. I want it to take as long as you possibly can. If it’s too fast, I’ll just make you do it again. I’ve got all night.”

Brian whimpers. His hands start to move, feathersoft, over himself. It’s captivating to watch—Pat’s seen it before, of course—but never when the hair on his arms is peeking around tape—when he’s blindfolded and sprawled out for Pat’s entertainment—when he’s making little  _aching_  sounds of desperation like he has been for the last half hour—

“Stop,” Pat directs, when Brian gets close—

and the kid begs “— _please_ —” and it’s heartwrenching—

but Pat barks “No,” and the kid’s hands jerk away, curl up to his mouth. He bites his frustrated, an absolute agony of desire. If he were given permission, he would come right now, Pat’s sure, but he’s interested this time in how far Brian can go without.

The kid masters himself, biting his fist, and Pat waits, a few beats, for the urgency to die down. Brian starts breathing again, although it’s a shaky, ragged sound.

“Again.  _Slower_.”

“I can’t,” Brian sobs, and he is absolutely a wreck. “Please. I can’t. I  _can’t_.”

“You can. Again. Just touch yourself. And don’t come. Is that so hard?”

Brian forces his shaky hands to his dick again, but he’s not even really wrapping his fingers around himself now, just pushing and whimpering.

“A little more hand,” Pat directs. “Just curl around—there. Now move. Faster than that. No, too fast. Good.”

Brian stops, suddenly, yanks his hands back up, grabbing at his hair. “Please— _please_ —”

Pat chuckles. “You’re very obedient, all of a sudden. Now that you think you’re going to get to come. I should have made you rub one out earlier.”

Pat draws close to the bed, gets a knee up on it. Puts a hand square in Brian’s chest, pressing him down. He puts his mouth close to Brian’s ear. “I don’t know if getting you off is the most efficient way to get my message across, though. Hardly seems like a threat.”

Brian just begs, wordlessly, and wrings at his own hair.

“Maybe I should just tie you down again. Spread-eagle. Fit that gag back in your mouth. How fast do you think your boyfriend would get here, if I sent him that picture? Fast enough to finish you off?”

“—please—”

“Don’t think he’ll come, just for that? Don’t worry. I’ve got options. I can work this broom handle into your ass, too. Maybe he’d hurry, if he knew every minute he wastes is another centimeter.”

“— _please!_ —”

Pat looks over Brian’s body, which is beautiful, and tries to bury this memory in his mind forever. Then, he seizes Brian’s cock hard, and tugs, just once.

Brian comes with a  _scream_ , all over his own chest and Pat’s hands, so violently that it gets in his hair. Pat holds his chest down and his dick firmly until he’s done spasming and rocking. It takes longer than usual, for him to start breathing at all close to normally again.

 

* * *

 

 

Pat pulls his hands off. He has another handkerchief in his pocket, and he wipes his hands off first before pulling off the one over Brian’s eyes. Brian lies completely limp, with his eyes closed, as Pat gently wipes the mess from his chest, drops the rag on the floor. He lets Pat take his hands without protest, swiftly cut through the last of the tape, rub the wrists, flex them, tuck them gently at Brian’s sides.

“You okay?” he asks carefully, when the silence drags on. Brian cracks an eye and hums affirmatively, but doesn’t much move. Pat rolls him gently on his side, looking for anything amiss. “You need water? A blanket?”

“Cold,” Brian agrees, childlike, and Pat fetches one from the corner of the room. It’s fluffy, and he tucks it in carefully before going to turn up the thermostat a few degrees.

He gets into bed behind Brian, pulling him to his chest, feeling for any shakes or tension or flinching, but Brian is just absolutely boneless and quite still. They lie there for a while, at least a few minutes, until Pat feels the pull of the silence again on his nerves. Brian’s never this quiet. Not unless he’s asleep. Maybe he really fucked up, this time…

“You’re okay?” he asks again, anxious.

“ _Yeah_ —I just—need a minute—you finally shut me up, Pat Gill.”

Brian laughs at his own joke, a tiny little bubble of joyful sound, and Pat’s whole body feels warm in relief.

“I love you,” he says, because nothing else seems right. “Hope I did okay. You were  _beautiful_.”

An hour later, they’re both eating pizza and drinking beer, and Brian is back to normal, more or less, singing cute little improvised melodies and trying (and utterly failing) not to give Pat too many hints about the plot of Undertale.

Brian scrambles up to illustrate some point, because he talks with his whole body, and trips nearly to the floor.

“What the fuck,” he cocks his head, picking up a little metal tube from the ground. “What is this? Is it from Jonah’s capo—”

Pat reaches out a hand. “Ah, no. Sorry. That’s mine. I shouldn’t leave shit on the floor. Knowing you, you’ll break your neck.”

“What  _is_  it?” Brian says, now with interest, turning it over in his hands.

“Galvanized steel pipe. Three-quarter inch. They cut it for you at Home Depot.”

“Butch,” Brian comments, still staring at it. “What’s it  _for_ , though.”

“Here,” Pat takes it from him, grins, and presses it up against his neck.

Brian tenses and then bursts out an exclamation at the same time as he tackles Pat against the couch. “Oh my fucking  _God_! Patrick Gill—you piece of shit—you scared me  _shitless_ —”

Pat chuckles as Brian smacks him on the shoulders. “Sorry. I should have checked that one with you before, really.”

“You  _jerk_! Oh Christ, that’s so sneaky. Fuck. I thought I was gonna have to sit you down for a whole chat about  _firearm safety_.”

“I  _am_  from Maine,” Pat chides. “We try not to point guns at people recreationally.”

“Well you fooled me.” Brian sits back, stops smacking at him playfully, but his eyes narrow. “I bet that wasn’t a knife, either, was it.”

Pat grins guiltily, and Brian moans.

“Oh my god. I am never trusting you again. I can’t believe I fell for your—your— _legerdemain_.”

“Sorry. But did you like it, though? Or was it too much?” He feels nervous, still, the way that Brian is looking at him, after, as if he doesn’t entirely think about Pat in the same way. They’d talked about these things, kind of. Ages ago. But that was just words on a page. And that was back when Pat hadn’t even really known what knifeplay meant, or that spreader bars existed, or that being put in a humiliating social situation could actually be a turn-on, for him, sometimes.

“Patrick. Stop worrying. It was great.  _Great_. So great that I think you might be reading my diary, actually—which is  _not_  cool, by the way—even if it is mostly about you—”

Pat lets out a breath of relief. “I wouldn’t read your diary. And I didn’t take any pictures, by the way. Just so you know.”

Brian slings his arms around Pat’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. “Well, you’re a liar, but at least you have good manners.” He pushes his forehead against Pat’s. “You really—that was a good one. Tricky. I never would have thought…”

“You’re the one that wrote home invasion on the list. And put little hearts around it, if I remember correctly.”

“That is true I did do that,” Brian grins, smudging his face into Pat’s glasses. “But I didn’t know you would—like, plot it all out. How’d you even know I’d be home tonight?”

“You said you’d be alone this weekend at work, remember?”

“But Simone asked me to a movie. And I was going to go, too, but she cancelled last min— _holy shit_!”

Pat laughs then, really laughs, because Brian is so pleased and indignant and flattered and angry. “Yeah, I might have got her in on it. Look, I get nervous about shit like this, okay? It takes me a while to work up the nerve. I’m not like you. I have to kind of plan it all out.”

“You are a mastermind,” Brian breathes. “I’m gonna have to up my game.”

“Looking forward to it,” Pat grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING:
> 
> \- sex: masturbation / hand jobs, mention of anal sex  
> \- BDSM: bondage (tape and gags), D/s, sub aftercare  
> \- kinks: edging, crying, knifeplay and gunplay (mild)
> 
> \- roleplay of: rape, home invasion, and assault


	6. (run away, find you a lover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian tries to keep it all straight in his head. next to all the song lyrics buzzing around.
> 
> _ventura highway in the sunshine / where the days are longer / the nights are stronger / than moonshine_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> great thanks to patient betas poppyseedheart and turnontheghostlight for reading over my angsty nonsense.

For the first few months, the list is kind of  _Brian’s thing._

Well. Pat is one of the  _beneficiaries_  of the list, sure. He likes it. Or at least, Brian's pretty sure—

…nonono. That’s silly. He  _does_  like it. Brian knows that much. Pat says he likes it. And whenever Brian accosts him with questions

(when Pat’s half-asleep and wrapped up in the covers at night or when they’re doing some post-bar drunk cuddling on the couch because the bed is too far away, or when they’re smoking Simone’s “thinking blend” and throwing around sketch ideas for video series that definitely Tara will not let them produce)

no matter how bad his timing is, on the questions, Pat never tells him to shut up, or cut it out, or just stop being so fucking horny for one second.

No, instead Pat’s eyes get real big, and his breath gets funny, and he takes on this kind of choked, bashful enthusiasm that Brian finds absolutely  _marvelous_. Pat’s so brave, and so smart, and so clever, and to think that he can make this tall handsome brilliant senior producer tongue-tied, that he can  _teach_  Pat a thing or two, every now and again, makes him feel proud and shameless and flirty and  _hot_.

And that sets his brain on fire, and then his ideas come spilling out even faster.

Pat rarely slows him down, which makes things a bit tricky, actually, because if Brian gets too caught up he won’t pay close enough attention to Pat’s face, won't figure out what he actually  _likes._

It’s not that Pat isn’t game, it’s that he’s  _super_  game. And he’s good at keeping a straight face. And there are things he’s going to like, and things he’s going to not-like, just like anybody, and it’s fucking  _really difficult_  for Brian to trace out exactly the boundaries of what those things, like, are. It’s downright  _terrifying_  how easy it is to talk him into new things—Brian knows, after the first time, that he can talk Pat into trying things he hasn’t even  _heard_  of—and although that much trust is kinda sexy in itself it could be absolutely disastrous, if Brian doesn’t pay really very spectacular attention.

He really doesn’t want to fuck this up.

He’s lucky Pat is patient. Pat listens to him explain, about safewords and sub drop, about why zip-ties aren’t a great idea and how to hit someone like you mean it when you don’t really  _mean_  it.

Brian thinks Pat kinda likes being a virgin again.

Either way, Pat tolerates Brian’s kinks, and he gives Brian lots of praise, and he lets Brian absolutely  _hammer_  him with questions, whenever he gets a chance. Brian’s mind races around Pat, tracing out scenarios, getting feedback on sexy fantasies, and interrogating him on the thoughts that are dirty and shameful and possibly never-for-sharing-with-another-living-soul.

Things get a little heavy, sometimes.

* * *

 

Sex is always like that. It’s, like, the most fun and funny thing in the world, but it can also be a little scary. Brian knows that triggers are as important as turn-ons when you’re trying to carve out a nice, neat, dramatic, tense little scene that won’t make anyone cry.

Or at least, that won’t make Pat cry,

(Brian kinda  _likes_  to cry, honestly, which he has to explain to Pat several times

(he gets good at pausing mid-cry)

since Pat is good at what he does, is fucking  _fabulous_  at getting Brian stripped down to pieces in no time flat)

because Brian knows that Pat likes a lot of things, including letting Brian really jerk around his emotions sometimes. But Pat does  _not_  like to cry in front of him, no sir. If he cries, he’ll safeword, and it’s  _not_   _good_. Brian finds this out the hard way and it's just about the worst thing ever.

“It’s fine, kid. Not your fault at all,” Pat says gently, when he’s holding Brian and comforting him about it, later,

(yes, Pat’s the one comforting Brian, because Brian is the fucking worst, and after Pat tapped out with a choked  _I need a minute_

(which is  _not,_ actually, his safeword, but Patrick's never safeworded before and it's not always an easy instinct to learn

(which makes it perhaps justifiable that Brian didn't  _quite_ stop on a dime

(he stopped quick but  _not quick enough_ )))

so after Pat taps out and needs a minute because he's full of rage and tears and shouty

(which apparently means Pat needs to shove on some street clothes and go take a walk 

(which is fine, totally normal, a change of scene to calm down

(although in that moment Brian hadn't understood

(he'd thought Pat was  _leaving_... ) ) ) ) 

after Pat leaves, Brian  _throws_ himself into the couch, sobbing and ripping at his hair and berating himself viciously 

(which is actually also totally normal, at least for Brian,

(although it's usually not a public thing, 

(precisely because he gets too worked up and panicked about how he's fucked up to hear the world around him

(specifically, in this case, to hear Pat come back in,

(which wouldn't be a problem except that Pat hears some of the things he's saying

(they're not very nice things)

and Pat gets slightly panicked 

(Pat sounds kind of angry when he's panicked) 

and Pat comes in and barks  _Jesus fucking Christ Brian don't fucking call yourself that_

(told you they weren't very nice things)

and Brian looks up and Pat sees him choking on tears,

(Pat likes it a little bit, when Brian cries cute, but that’s not at all what this is (look you can't cry cute all the time (especially not when your boyfriend's just stormed out (because he hates you (because you hurt him (because you're a worthless fucking—

))))))

)

)

)

).

* * *

 

“Bri?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you thought spiraling again?”

“Yeah.”

Pat kisses his head. “Stop that. I’m good, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I—”

“Nothing wrong. It’s a really easy fix, all right?”

“Oh  _god—please—_ tell me—how do I fix it?”

“Just—don’t call me that. Okay? I have a thing about it. Which you couldn’t have known before.”

“I should have—”

“Nah, you shouldn’t’ve. You just took a guess. It was a good guess, totally on the money, totally fits with the kind of thing I like. Usually.”

Brian says nothing, 

(because... )

and Pat bops him on the nose, sternly, when he starts to think too much again. 

“Stop it, you. You're doing fine. Don't stop guessing just 'cause you fucked up once. When you guess right, it’s  _really_  fucking hot. I mean, humiliating, but also very hot. You know?”

Brian knows. He’s starting to get his feet back under him.

“Okay. Sorry. So—so—calling you names is still okay. Mean names. Just not  _that_  one.”

“Yup.” Pat affirms easily. “You got it.”

Brian is afraid he hasn’t got it, though, not really, not got it well enough to avoid guessing so catastrophically wrongly next time. But Pat wants him to guess, wants him to keep trying, and he wants to  _never ever ever_  hurt Pat again. So he gets brave, and pushes, just a little. Because that’s what he does.

“Does it bother you because it’s  _sexist_ , or—”

Pat shoots a sharp look at him. “You know the fucked up shit I say to you, Brian. I’m not proud of it, but my dick  _definitely_  has some old-fashioned views about gender roles.”

Brian winces at the tone. “Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry. I thought—maybe it’s d-different—the other way—s-sorry.”

“Hey, kid,” Pat is gentle again, and stroking his hair. “Stop apologizing. I get it. You’re trying to avoid landmines.”

Brian nods fervently, because that’s a good analogy.

Especially the part where if he fucks it up, he blows off his own legs.

Pat sighs. “I shouldn’t snap at you. You’re the one doing all the work, all the time. Figuring out what I like. What I don’t like. Making it happen for me. Coming up with ideas. Remembering stuff. Telling me everything your crazy little heart desires. You’re  really fuckin' brave, you know that? You're incredible.”

It makes Brian’s face a little warm, the praise.

(He remembers telling Pat, one night, super drunk, “I’ve got a bit of a praise kink…” and Pat just laughing uproariously and saying “Yeah, kid, I fucking know.”)

“I’ll try to get better at communicating,” Pat says, and he’s solemn, like he’s making a promise. “So that you don’t have to worry so much. It’s really just that one word, honestly.” He makes a strange face, but plunges ahead. “My dad used to call me that. Sometimes. When I wasn’t—I dunno. Being manly enough, I guess. So that’s why it’s a trigger. Avoid that, and we’re in the clear.”

Brian doesn’t understand why now, of all moments,

when he’s most fucked up,

when he’s been the most careless and selfish and self-centered and overemotional,

when he’s the least deserving,

why Pat’s gifting him  _now_  with the deep and dark secrets of his heart, the ones that he keeps under lock and key, the ones that Brian’s been picking, picking, picking away at ineffectively for almost a year.

“I love you,” Brian says, because although they don’t say it that often, he can’t think of what else to say.

“I love you,” Pat says fondly, and strokes his hair as if he’s a very precious thing.

* * *

 

It’s only a few weeks later, when Brian sees Pat pull it out of his desk drawer, that Brian realizes he’s started keeping his own list.

Oh,  _fuck_  yes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS   
> \- BDSM: name-calling/humiliation (mentioned), failed scene, negotiations, triggers and safewording.  
> \- mentions of drugs & alcohol,   
> \- triggers: negative self-talk, self-deprecation, verbally abusive father-son relationships.


	7. ((you wreck me, baby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian's had a rough week. if he plays his cards right, it might get even rougher.
> 
> _i'm just living on nerves and feelings / with a weak and a lazy mind / and coming to other people's parties / fumbling deaf dumb and blind_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again poppyseedheart and turnontheghostlight for catching parenthesis problems, and making my soul feel light.

Patrick has a little different style than Brian. Brian tends to get caught up in these elaborate fantasies—costumes lighting characters  _drama_ —he loves when a good idea goes into production—

Pat’s more grounded. Based in reality.

Like for instance, if Brian’s having a totally shit week, which he is this week.

He’s been behind on projects and frazzled and fucked up nearly every damn day. Monday he had a hangover. Tuesday, he was sleep-deprived, and spilled his coffee all over himself (and his keyboard) and then he had no coffee because he was too angry at himself for being clumsy to go make more. And he snapped at Clayton, which was really mean, because Clayton is always nice.

Wednesday, he apologized to Clayton, and Clayton said it was no big deal, but gave him that  _look_  that people give Brian when he’s kinda starting to lose it.

Also on Wednesday, Tara catches him by the door and asks him if he’s okay—

(he says yep, but he says it too fast)

and on Thursday, she does it again, and when he answers

(he says  _really I’m fine_  but it sounds a little too thready)

she grabs his shoulder and tells him, maybe he should take the day off tomorrow.

She’s being nice, but her niceness makes his chest squeeze with panic, because if he takes the day off he’s going to miss this deadline and disappoint her, and also if he comes to work now he’s going to disappoint her, and he really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

Pat is frowning at him, Thursday afternoon, and follows him when he stumbles back to his desk.

“Come over tonight,” Pat says.

“I can’t—I’ve got to finish—”

“I know,” says Pat. “You can work at my place. I heard the boss-man tell you to work from home tomorrow, so I thought you might like to be somewhere you can concentrate.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Brian says fervently, because it’s tacit permission to work from home, and also permission to sleep in Pat’s arms, which he so  _desperately_  needs. He'd do it every night, if he could.

“Great,” Pat smiles. “And then tomorrow, after work, can I help you unwind a little?”

“Sure,” Brian says lightly, although his heart beats  _yes yes yes yes please thank you please yes_.

 

* * *

 

 

On Friday, he works pretty calmly in Pat’s tiny kitchen, letting Charlie wend around his legs and eating the cold pizza Pat pointed out for him to finish off. He got at least a draft done, so he’s feeling pretty good, even though he keeps getting distracted by the little excited curious feeling that sits patiently in his gut. Waiting.

He checks his Slack messages.

> **simone (10:01:40):**  arent you supposed to be off work today?  
>  **simone (10:02:01):**  tara’s orders?  
>  **simone (10:02:02):**  gtfo slack  
>  **bdg (10:02:50):** pat told me to work from home  
>  **bdg (10:02:55):**  i *am* taking it easy though  
>  **bdg (10:03:00):** sorry if I was a pain this week  
>  **simone (10:03:03):** you’re not a PAIN you’re just going INSANE in the MEMBRAIN from too much STRAIN  
>  **bdg (10:03:05):**  lol please no more work-life-balance related raps  
>  **simone (10:03:06):**  fine fine  
>  **simone (10:03:30):**  you better be done at five SHARP tho. pat invited me over. if that’s cool

Brian’s fingers freeze.

Had he been wrong, when he thought Pat meant—did  _help you unwind_  just mean Mario Kart?

Or maybe—no, he'd thought Pat had been asleep, that night

(they were both so drunk, Pat had only murmured  _mmmhmmm_  to every question Brian asked (and maybe the questions were technically more revealing than the answers would have been, anyway…))

—huh.

Brian pushes the thought away, because he hasn’t responded in a very long time, and no matter what Pat said to Simone, he doesn’t want her to think that the answer is no.

> **simone (10:03:30):** you better be done at five SHARP tho. pat invited me over. if that’s cool  
>  **simone (10:05:10):** ... is it cool?   
>  **bdg (10:06:34):** of course  
>  **simone (10:06:40):** seriously. if pats just pushing you say no  
>  **bdg (10:06:41):** nonononono  
>  **bdg (10:06:41):** wait i mean   
>  **bdg (10:06:43):** YES please come over. pat knows what's good for me

He hopes that answer is ambiguous enough to cover all the bases, and forces himself into the last leg of the workday. He has a feeling he’s not going to get a lot done tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

When Simone comes over, it turns out she’s not playing Mario Kart, and she’s not drinking, and she’s  _not fucking around_. She has an overnight bag, and her hair is pulled back, and when Pat lets her in she greets Brian with a look that makes him feel like in another life she was an auctioneer, or possibly a madam.

She and Pat make small talk about work for a minute, and then make small talk about Brian, which should be awkward but the two are just so comfortable with each other that it’s really not.

“He’s had a really rough week,” Pat says, glancing at Brian. “I don’t think anything happened in particular. He just gets in his head sometimes. Too much—” he gestures, “—thinking about thinking.”

“I can certainly help with that,” Simone gives an appraising look. “Like I’ve done with you. If he’s into it. Have you told him about how we play together occasionally?”

“He knows,” Pat says, and Brian does. Simone and Pat are not  _together_  but they just—they fit together really well.

(Brian is privately convinced that Simone is the reason that Pat and Brian are dating,

(Allegra said so, anyway)

that Simone was the person who gave Pat the push.

“He’s a switch, you said?”

“Yeah. But I think he likes being on bottom better. He just indulges me.”

He kind of wants to break in, to speak for himself—

(he doesn’t  _just_  indulge Pat, he really  _does_  like it, both ways)

but it’s also kind of hot to have people talking about him without talking  _to_ him, so he holds his tongue.

“That makes sense. You have a real, like,  _Daddy_  energy, Pat.” Simone laughs, loud, like always, when Pat blushes. “It’s just true. You’re skinny, but I bet twinks follow you around everywhere. Especially with that beard.”

Brian privately agrees, even though it makes Pat’s face turn red. “Fuck you, Simone.”

Simone giggles. “I’m not criticizing. It’s your brand, honey.”

Pat brushes back his hair. “All right. So, are you ready, or…?”

“I’m good. You asked him if this was okay?”

“Kind of.” Pat’s eyes slide to Brian. “He’s…mentioned it. Before.”

Simone rolls her eyes. “For the love of—you gotta  _ask_ , Pat. No wonder he was so coy on Slack.”

“I—well—”

She cuts off his blushing with a curt gesture, but when she turns to Brian her smile is normal, and not at all sharp. “Hey Brian, is it okay if I have sex with you and Pat tonight?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Brian says emphatically, and tries not to look too happy.

“Oh good,” Simone grins.  Her expression shifts then, gets a little more stern, and she beckons Brian close to her. He steps up instantly, lets her curl a hand around the nape of his neck. “Is Patrick right, baby?” she coos. “Do you need us to be good to you, this week?”

Brian looks down at his cheeks, bashful, but dips his chin in half a nod.

“You’re so pretty, when you’re pretending to be shy,” she says, raking a hand across his forehead, his hair. “Go get showered, sweetie. Daddy and I are gonna get ready. Okay?”

It’s  _more_  than okay, but she doesn’t let him go until he says so out loud. She leans close and nips his ear and asks for his safeword and promises that if he’s really, really good, she can show him a few things—

(things that Pat likes)

—and his heart is humming, humming, humming with wordless joy when she steps away.

 

* * *

 

 

Pat and Simone are kissing, when he comes back. Brian's pink with heat and slightly damp and stark naked (because that's how Simone wanted him) and he just looks at them for a long minute. 

They kiss really nicely, tall bodies intertwined. It’s neither lewd nor saccharine, the way their lips and hips meet, the sounds they make. Pat’s in a t-shirt and boxers, which her fingers are hitching up to get at the skin underneath. She’s impeccable, in a black dress, and Pat’s hands curl around her hips.

He watches quietly for a few seconds, waiting to be noticed.

Eventually, Pat looks up, and his eyes crinkle a little. He steps away. Simone fixes her hair. He figures they’re going to beckon him over, but they come to him.

Pat puts firm hands on his shoulders, turns him slightly. Like he’s showing Brian off, and Simone steps back and is  _certainly_  looking. It makes his face feel warm. How she’s looking at him. Like she’s going to  _devour_  him. Like she’s just deciding where to start.

“Let me kiss him,” Simone breathes, and her mouth is still red from kissing Pat.

Behind him, Pat gently puts an arm across his chest, pulls him back, to sit on the bed. He pulls Brian onto his lap, arm still hugging across his collarbone, other hand snaking into Brian’s hair, grasping, angling his head up.

Simone kisses hot and wet and beautiful. Her tongue is forward, exploring him, and he closes his eyes and tries to give her whatever she wants. It’s hard not to, actually. With Pat holding him, rubbing his chest, pulling his head, and her hands on his face, his neck, her thumbs nudging his chin this way and that.

She bites, not that hard, but enough that he knows she’s getting impatient. Pat knows too, it seems, because his voice rumbles at Brian’s back. “What do you want to do first, Simone?”

Brian has an idea, though, and—

(because his eyes are closed and he’s hard and he’s naked and there’s no reason to be shy anymore)

he just asks “Please, may I taste you?”

“Oh my stars he’s so polite!” Simone’s voice lilts in delight.

Pat chuckles as if to say  _not always_.

“Of course, darling.” She hops up on the bed.

When Pat lets him go, he turns, and she’s on her side, an elegant knee propped up, her skirt hitched to just skim the curve of her hips, and touching herself delicately.

He hesitates, because she’s beautiful—

—and Pat’s hand on his back guides him to where he’s supposed to go. He’s never tried in this position before, but it fits, when he rests his head on her thigh and his body curls around, and Pat pushes his hips so that he can fit on the bed behind Brian and his long arms can reach everything he wants.

He licks the sides, first, with a flat wet tongue, trying to be confident but not  _too_  much. Trying not to tickle, not to be tentative, not to push too hard. He hopes she can’t feel him trembling.

Pat definitely can, though, and he’s not helping with that, pressing himself into Brian’s back and snaking his hand around to brush at chest and hips and nipples and just above…

Simone looses a happy sigh, and twists a bit, and Brian tries to concentrate.

She likes the bold, broad strokes up the middle of her slit, he thinks, and when he peeks his tongue into her, just a bit, seeing what she tastes like. It’s wet and tart and he wants to—

“ _Mmmph!_ ” 

He makes a sudden sound and loses his train of thought,because Pat is brushing the tip of his dick, swirling a fingertip around it. He darts a look at Simone, to see if she’s going to scold him, but she’s smiling—

“It’s not your fault, baby. Not today. He’s wicked.”

Brian shivers, partially because Pat is still featherlight touching—

(and partially because  _not today_  sounds like a promise)

—and then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing and tries to work his lips around her clit and suck and hum in the way that he hopes is gentle and fuzzy and sticky and good—

(he  _thinks_  it’s good, because of how she sounds)

it would be easier, certainly, to pull those little appreciative happy sounds out of her, if Pat’s hands weren’t constantly roaming his body, touching his legs and stroking his belly. If there weren't stubble rubbing up against the back of his neck. He tries, he tries to keep pace, but he knows that whenever Pat seizes his dick, he hitches, and whenever Pat's tongue flicks out at the back of his neck—

oh  _jeez_ —

he goes utterly stupidly slack. Simone just giggles. He recuperates quickly, blushes hot, licks down to her opening again and tries to fuck her with his tongue—but Pat’s stroking, then—

(he moans)

and Simone’s pulling his hair, smashing his face up into her harder, reminding him—

(maybe he can just lick in the same rhythm as Pat’s hand? even if it's sloppy?)

and he lets himself speed up along with the shudders that are racking his body.

Pat squeezes—Brian feels wetness on his cheeks—hard to tell where from—

(Simone or his spit or his frustrated, filthy tears because he knows he’s not doing a good job)

he knows he shouldn’t come, not now, not when he’s—

but if Pat keeps—

 _God_ —

He trying so hard to keep his mouth working right and keep a tight hold on the fire burning through his spine from the base of his skull to the tip of his toes. He feels rather than hears the vibrations and it takes maybe thirty full seconds before he realizes what it is—

Pat and Simone are  _talking_ —

he can’t tell about what, he can’t  _possibly_ —

because he’s choking against her cunt, as Pat makes his tongue stutter and forget how to flick—

they’re just chatting—as he’s coming apart—

Simone laughs

(her laugh is beautiful)

and says something, and Pat says “He can,” and lets go of him. Simone pulls away too, and Brian sobs, because if he’s not going to be allowed to—to—to—he thinks he’ll die—

“Please—” he hears himself begging, and it sounds pathetic, and he doesn’t know even what he’s begging  _for_.

Pat turns his head and stifles the little hitching pleas with his mouth.

“You did good, Brian,” Simone says kindly, from somewhere, somewhere where her hands are grabbing Brian’s hips and turning him on his back and pulling his legs to the edge of the bed

(Pat pulls also, but when Brian scrambles to try and help them, to get himself where they want him, Pat shoves him back down and yanks his arms high over his head and pins them between his crouching knees—Brian whimpers—but Pat doesn’t seem to mind, as he bends over to capture Brian’s mouth again, letting his hair fall over and tickle Brian’s chest).

Simone is pushing, also, palms on his thighs, and her body is pressed up against his legs, pinning them, spread, so he can’t close his knees and he can’t buck up and he can’t do anything but gasp, when she puts her mouth on him—

he can’t really gasp, either, because of Pat’s tongue—

he tries, tries,  _tries_  not to come, because if this moment could just last forever—

Pat licking into his mouth, which still tastes of her—

her mouth sucking and swirling—

his hands and feet twitching—

but eternity is not to be, because Simone makes a movement and Pat glances up and something is transmitted between them and then both mouths are back on him and it’s so hot and so fast that—

 _God_ —

either he has to come or he has to die

(either is fine)

and his body chooses for him

(or maybe they choose for him)

and they hold him, tight, while his body spasms into frantic uselessness.

 

* * *

 

 

Brian thinks maybe this is what an out of body experience is like, when he comes back to himself. He knows where he is, (lying curled in a ball on Pat’s bed, with Pat’s hand on his back and Simone’s hip touching his knee), and he knows how he got there, (Pat pulled back, and told him he was a good boy, and pushed him forward to sit up and meet Simone’s smiling face, to kiss her, to taste himself on her lips), and he knows that he spoke, even, and said he was all right, and said  _thank you thank you thank you_ , but the details of the sequence are fuzzy and disordered and maybe not even in first-person perspective.

Pat’s petting is grounding him, though, his wide warm hand stroking up and down the knobs of Brian’s spine.

“—ink he’s done?”

“Dunno,” Pat’s saying. “He might be tuckered out. He’s been exhausted lately.”

“— _nnooo_ —” Brian’s hands curl in the sheets, which is the most movement of protest he can muster—

because he  _is_  tuckered out—and he  _has_  been exhausted, lately—and he  _knows_  he sounds like a whiny child who doesn’t want to go to bed—

but he feels like if they don’t squeeze every last drop out of him, tonight, do everything to him, shatter him to pieces again and again and again, then—

“Oh, baby,” Simone says, and ruffles his hair. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to leave you wanting more.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and curls himself tighter around her hips, grateful. Pat is still touching him, fingers massaging as much as petting, now, working out knots in his shoulders.

“Let’s take ten, then,” Pat decides, voice gruff and reasonable, like he sounds at work, when he’s corralling his wacky, wild video team and telling them to  _circle up_. “And then we’ll come back and see what we’re up for.”

 

* * *

 

 

Pat tells Simone to keep an eye on him, which makes Brian feel fuzzy and silly, like he always does, when Pat treats him like something very fragile that needs to be protected. He wonders—

she seems to like playing with his hair—

if he looks quiet and cute in that way that Patrick likes, will she come over and pet him? And maybe—

“Stop pretending to be asleep.”

He lifts his head instantly and blushes. Simone’s smirking at him, stripping her dress over her head and revealing a sexy black bra that contrasts against her creamy skin. He tries to look contrite from under his hair.

“Oh my  _God_ , Brian, you’re too much.” She snorts a laugh. “Your innocent act might fool Pat, but I saw that little hip wiggle, when he said he was going to shower.”

She’s lasering him with her stare, smart and sassy, unhooking her bra and yanking it off, then pantomiming a little victory dance. “I know what’s going on in that little mind:  _Oh yeaaaah Brian’s gonna get fuuuuucked toniiiiiight…_ ”

Brian laughs and pushes himself up. “Guilty.  _Goddammit_  Simone. I’m trying to do a thing.”

“You’re doing it,” she smiles, and crawls up on the bed next to him. She doesn’t straddle him, exactly, but just intertwines their legs and arms and sits all over him in a way that’s cute and intimate and just so  _her_. “You’re doing the hell out of it, and Pat’s eating it up. He is  _gaga_  over you, baby boy.”

“Really?”

“Oh, abso-fucking- _lutely_  wild about you. You should hear him talking about your scenes.”

“Does he tell you about them?” It stirs an interesting bubble of nerves in his heart, to imagine Pat describing…

Simone pats him. “He doesn’t kiss and tell. But he did start asking me for advice, a few months ago. A lot. And there’s only so many times I can hear, ‘How do I…?’ and ‘What if someone wants…?’ and ‘Simone, do you think I can pull off…’ before I start putting things together.”

That makes him curious, and he wants to ask what Pat’s gotten advice on, but there’s also about four thousand other things he wants to ask, and it’s hard to sort them all through in his mind in order of priority.

“Spit it out, sexy.”

“What’s Pat like?” Brian decides on, even though it’s maybe the most vague of all.

“I dunno if he knows,” Simone grins, and pulls his hand onto her breast, answering another question he hadn’t asked yet. “We’re not like you two. We do a lot of just down-home fucking. Sometimes I push him around a bit, make him feel like a dirty bird. He gets real worked up about little things—flirting at work, dirty talk, new positions, fucking on the floor—stuff like that.”

“I know,” Brian says, and frowns, skirting his fingers across her chest. “I’m worried I—come on too strong, sometimes. I know I’m a lot.”

“Whatever you’re doing, he wants more of it.” Simone rolls her eyes. “Obviously. He likes to get in over his head.”

Brian pauses to kiss her neck and think for a second about how to voice his thoughts. “Yeah. I just wanna make sure I’m not like…pushing…”

“—well that’s not true at all, dumbass, you  _love_  pushing—”

He smiles guiltily. “Okay, okay, not pushing too  _much_. He’s really good at this, Simone.”

“Both of you are good. Just go with it. I’ll tell you, if I think he’s freaking out.”

“Thanks,” he breathes in her ear, and he’s going to say more, but is interrupted by—

“ _Fuck_.”

He startles, disentwines an arm from Simone’s, and looks up to see Pat wrapped in a towel in the doorway. He’s got a lopsided smile, and looks an interesting combination of aroused and worried.

“You two are conferring. I knew that there’d be trouble if I had you over, Simone.”

Simone mouths at his ear wickedly and says, “Don’t worry, Patrick. I’m just giving Brian a little advice.”

Pat groans and brushes his hand through his hair, color rising on his cheeks. “I’m a goner.”

Simone laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s only a few minutes later, that Simone has Pat’s towel off, and is tracing her hand up his chest suggestively. Brian wraps his arms around his knees and watches how she teases him, kisses below his chin, brushes her body close but not too close, fitting in exactly how she wants. She murmurs things up to his ear, things that make Pat’s hips shift against her and make his eyes flit to Brian with dark, guilty desire.

“If you’re sure,” he whispers back, and draws an uncertain hand down Simone’s arm. Brian’s face and his heart do funny shifts, shifts that make his expression go wide-eyed and nervous, even though his heart beats  _yes yes yes fuck yes Simone you absolute champion._

“Trust me, honey,” she says to Pat, but her eyes are on Brian. “He looks innocent, but this one’s a real slut. You should  _hear_  what he asks for, when you’re not around.”

He swallows at that, at her tone, at the way it makes Pat look at him, contemplating.

“Come here.” Pat gestures to Brian. His arm is still wrapped around Simone, but his right hand takes Brian’s chin, tilts it up. “Is she right, Brian?”

Brian says nothing, because everything he can possibly think of is drowned out by the thumb brushing across his parted lips, and the tickle of feminine fingers on his hip, the way Pat’s eyes search his face.

Pat’s patient, though. He asks again. “Are you a slut?”

He wants to say it, he really does, but he also wants to know what will happen if he just looks up, wide-eyed and speechless, and licks toward Pat’s finger and tilts his hip forward and threatens to let his knees buckle, just a bit.

“We’re not going to fuck you unless you say it.” Pat’s arm wraps firmly around his waist. His voice is stern.

“I—I—”

“Cmon, baby,” Simone coos smoothly, skirting a hand up his chest, and if she tweaks his nipple jokingly along the way, he doesn’t think Pat notices. “You can do it. Just tell him you’re a horny little slut who needs his dick in you. You want it, don’t you? A nice big cock, splitting you open. You can tell Mama Simone. Just say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Brian admits. His voice wavers—

and he knows Simone would accuse him of artifice, but it’s real, it’s  _real_ , how hard it is to make his voice say it to Pat’s face, Pat who is handsome and perfect and confident and tall and strong and wonderful—

Pat’s expression shifts, when Brian says that, and it’s enough to make him start to move, but—

“You can do better than  _that_ ,” Simone scratches her fingers down his chest. “Convince him, honey. Tell him how you  _really_  feel.”

Pat’s breath hitches, and Brian goes for broke—

“Fuck me, daddy,  _please_. Please, I need your cock in me. Please fuck your little slut—”

and Pat  _slams_  his lips into Brian, and the three of them are all moving toward the bed with a momentum, though whose it is, no one knows.

Then there are arms pulling his legs apart—

(that’s Pat pulling him back and spreading his legs for Simone’s fingers—

she’s got lube, and it’s wet and cool and he writhes as she touches his ass—

but tries to stay still, tries to cooperate, because she’s telling him to  _be a good boy now_ )

and fingers working into him—

(he bites his lip—

he’s trying not to give out any moans too quickly—

because really, how would that  _look_ —

but she seems to think his panting breath is telling enough because she laughs harsh and quiet and says “there’s a good little slut, you’re so fucking  _easy_ , aren’t you”—

and it’s  _true_ , it's true, there’s nothing he wants more than to fuck himself onto her fingers—

but Pat is holding him tight, spreading him wide)

and lips sucking dark marks onto his neck—

(they’re too high, they’ll show at work—

maybe Pat  _wants_  them to show at work—

maybe Pat wants the whole office to know how Brian is his to bite and tease and fuck until he cries)

and it’s all so, so much, until then it’s even more, because Pat is sitting on the edge of the bed and lifting him and the tip of his cock is pressing up, wetly, insistently. Brian can barely stay on his toes but he barely needs to, because Pat has got him, is holding him up, and murmuring in his ear  _there’s a good boy, open up for me, you’re so tight, so good, just let me go slow_  and Simone’s hands are guiding him, pushing him down, whispering in his other ear  _c’mon Brian, sit on his dick, you’re so fucking hungry for it, you’re hard again, ’m gonna ride you while Pat plows your tight little ass, and you’re gonna take it like the little bitch you are_.

Brian moans a little with pleasure. With the hot length inside him he feels so good, so stretched and full and desirable, that he almost forgets they’re going to  _move_  at some point, and just lets his head drop back onto Pat’s shoulder, panting. Even though it exposes his neck to Simone’s wicked teeth.

While Pat is still Simone is moving, biting, sucking, worrying at his lip, her hands tugging at his balls and rubbing up against his dick, sliding a condom on him. He’s hard again and sensitive, all over—every touch makes him squirm—every time he squirms Pat pants and shifts—and the push in his ass rubs up against something that makes him bite his lip and whimper—and that makes Simone grin and grab something else—

“Simone,” Pat says threadily. “If we’re gonna do this, you better stop teasing him. I can’t last forever.”

“Roger,” she grins. “I’m ready for some acrobatics. You’ve gotta make sure I don’t fall, daddy-o.”

“Of course.”

She gets on the bed, stands, grabs Pat’s shoulders to steady herself and straddles the two of them. Pat is moving (so Brian is moaning) but it’s not about Brian right now, it’s about how Pat grabs her arms, strong and tender, and counterbalances her weight as she lowers herself daintily into their collective lap. It’s about how Simone’s whole body slides down him, on the way to find his dick—about the way Pat grunts and leans back, Brian’s body tight against his, to make the angle easier for her—about the way she licks at his face possessively and hisses  _stop enjoying yourself and help me out, slut, my hands are kinda busy up here._

He scrambles—he can barely  _find_  his hands, between them—and helps guide the tip of his own dick into her cunt, which is wet and slick and perfect and everything slips together until her sharp hips bang against his own and she wraps her arms around Pat’s neck and Pat wraps his arms around her naked back and the two look at each other past Brian’s head. He can only see Simone’s face, but he can imagine Pat’s is the same—somewhere on the spectrum of pleased to triumphant, and answering each others’ questions without asking them out loud.

For Brian’s benefit, though, Simone says, “Ooh, honey, you feel good. We’re gonna fuck your  _brains_  out. You good back there, Patrick? I’ve got my angle, I think.”

“Good,” Pat’s voice rumbles, and if it’s a little strained, Brian can hardly be one to judge, as for the past minute and a half he’s been making nothing but pathetic hitching cries of pleasure. “It’s good. I just have to make sure I don’t get excited and throw you off the bed.”

Simone laughs and wraps her long clever legs around the both of them, pulling tight and making Brian moan, which she ignores. “No need to be gentle, Patrick. I’ve got a good hold now. Why don’t you grab his wrists so he doesn’t get confused about what to do with his sneaky little hands.”

Brian had forgotten, yet again, that he even  _had_  hands—that they were ghosting over Simone’s body, trying to take in everything about her—trying to help, trying to encourage, trying to—

but he remembers his limbs again when Pat shifts

(God,  _fucking God_  the fucking cock inside him tilts and presses against something and—

the sound is pornographic, that it rips from him)

and suddenly his wrists are caught roughly, Pat squeezing them both together in one hand, with the arm that’s hugging around Simone’s back, supporting her—

and his toes are still just grazing the floor

(he can’t get purchase, because Pat’s other arm is wrapped tight against his hips, making sure he’s not seated or standing or  _anything_  exactly except speared firmly on Pat’s dick)

and there’s nothing, nothing, nothing he can do but wait.

“Please, move” he hears himself beg, “ _Pleaseplease_  move”—

and because they’re cruel,  _cruel_ , this makes both of them go instantly still.

(He sobs.)

“Shhh, baby,” Pat rumbles behind him. “You’re gonna make me come too fast, if you start begging for it now.”

There are tears on his cheeks, though, and he can’t stop. “I need—please—sorry, sorrysorry,  _please_ —I can’t—”

Pat sighs, and though no one is moving, not really, the dick twitches hard inside him. He moans.

“Naughty,” Simone breathes, right up against his face. She laps at his cheeks, and he closes his eyes, because to look at her, sweaty and disheveled and predatory, is surely a sin. “I made Pat promise I could come first. Are you  _trying_  to get him in trouble?”

“No—nono—please Simone—I  _can’t_ —”

And he can’t, he really  _can’t_  stop begging—and pleading and gasping and sobbing and moving his hips with the littlest degree of freedom he can find trapped between them, dying for Pat’s hips to jerk up into him, for Simone to slide up and down, even a little, on his cock—

“I’m gonna have to kiss him, Patrick,” she says sternly, “If you want him to shut up.”

“Do it, then,” Pat groans. “And for the love of  _God_ , holler when you come.”

Simone laughs and says “You got it, daddy,” and shoves her tongue down Brian’s throat—

and pushes up with her heels and starts to fuck herself on Brian’s—

she’s slamming—

down hard and fast and

he’s never felt—

the way it pushes Pat into—

his hands can’t—

he’s afraid he bit—

her body is bouncing down to meet—

she’s smiling into his mouth—

Pat groans—

he’s close but he’s—

(he tastes iron and sweat

(he smells Simone’s perfume, Pat’s shampoo

(he hears Pat’s breath hot and short with desperate concentration

(he sees entire galaxies being created and destroyed on the inside of his eyelids

(he feels everything  _everything everything everything everything everything everything everything_ he’s ever felt all at once

))))).

Simone breaks free from his mouth and  _whoops_

(which is crazy)

and Pat gasps in relief and says  _Thank Jesus_  and jerks up

(which is a lot)

and Simone sticks her tongue in Brian’s ear and laughs and says—

_your daddy thinks you can come again, so cmon you little slut, you let us both fuck you right up, so you deserve this, come for me—_

and his body is absolutely, completely, theirs, so when she tells him to he does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- 'ships: Pat/Simone, Pat/Brian/Simone  
> \- sex: M/M/F, oral, digital, anal, real smutty  
> \- language: daddy kink (daddy/baby boy), dirty talk w/slurs  
> \- BDSM: femdom, D/s dynamics


	8. - duet - (it's good to be king)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian gets some love. pat is happy for him. REALLY. (mostly).
> 
>  
> 
> _oh how strong can you be / with matters of the heart? / life's much too short / to while away with tears_

**8:20 AM**

Pat gets to work earlier than usual. By a lot, actually. He’s not the first one in the office—he would never presume to compete with Ashley for that prize—but today he makes a special effort to drag his ass out of bed at seven-fucking-fifteen like a goddamn adult, and shower and shave—well, not  _shave_  exactly, but  _clean it up_ —and get on the subway, and get to work before Brian does.

It’s a stupid reason, he has, but sometimes he indulges his stupid desires these days.

He just wants to see.

He thinks it’ll be interesting, when Brian boots up his computer.

Brian never checks anything, the day his videos are posted. He’s still too dying nervous about fucking up, so when his new stuff is going to drop he just pre-schedules his social posts and leaves work early and goes radio silent for a whole day. It’s crazy, that Brian still has some corner of performance anxiety that hasn’t been sanded off by his relentless, never-ending, self-enforced schedule of performances, but there you go.

Pat thinks Brian’s gonna be pretty pleased, today. He’d just like to see.

* * *

 

**9:07 AM**

Brian gets to work late. He kind of planned to—not this late,

(he’d wanted to get there at like, 8:55

(which is not technically late

(but it’s late for being early)))

but he wanted to get there late enough that he’s reasonably sure Pat will be there already. He’s being dumb, he knows, but he’s really nervous, to see how Unraveled was received—whether he might get the go-ahead to do another one—and he’s got kind of a little ritual that Pat isn’t usually there for—but when he is, it's nice—and if this video bombs

(fuck, what if it  _bombs_

(there is no way it’s not going to bomb, it’s way too weird

(niche, and wordy, and goofy, and much longer than the target video length, and just generally ridiculous))

and he’s wasted all this time—more than a week

(almost a month)

on something nobody likes…)

if this video bombs, it’d be really nice to have Pat there, so that he has a way to cheer himself up before another Friday goes down the tubes.

However, he’s  _actually_  late, when he gets to work, and he doesn’t have time to do anything at all, because Pat’s not at his desk, he’s in the meeting

(the meeting that Brian is supposed to be in too

( _god_  he hopes they aren’t waiting for him)

because it’s a Friday stand-up, and everyone’s in it. So Brian grabs his shit and runs a hand through his fucked-up hair and gets ready with an apology and opens the door to the conference room quietly and quickly.

* * *

 

**9:07 AM**

Pat smiles at Brian, when he makes it in, because even if he’s a little sad that he got up early for nothing—

well, it was a stupid thought, anyway.

Anyway, Brian looks scattered and tired—like he has for weeks—because he’s been giving everything to this project—and possibly maybe he hasn’t even had time to check, yet. To see how well he did. He slinks into the back of the meeting, trying hard not to be noticed, but he does meet Pat’s eye and gives a shy smile like he does when he’s afraid he’s fucked up but trying not to let on too much.

Tara, who’s talking, calls him out. “Brian, get up here.”

Pat’s stomach curls in pity at the way Brian stops dead in his tracks. Tara’s not going to scold, he knows, that’s not her style, but Brian doesn’t know that. No matter what, the kid always thinks someone’s about to tell him off, for something or other.

Brian’s already blushing and stuttering apologies for being late, but she’s ignoring that, and turning to the group, and calling their attention—Pat doesn’t know what the details are gonna be, exactly, but he knows the gist—Tara likes to brag when someone does something really good—and Unraveled was a fucking smash hit, so Brian’s gonna get a round of applause and a couple of compliments that are so brusque and real and very  _nice_  that it makes the whole thing not cheesy. Tara’s good at shit like that. Leadership.

It’s wild, what Brian’s face does when he realizes he’s not getting a telling-off.

_And_  he’s getting Tara saying that he  _really killed it, nice work_.

_And_  she gives him carte blanche to pick a really fuckin’ crazy idea for the next one.

_And_  she tells him to pull on whatever team members he wants to the project.

Brian’s cheeks burn so hot it looks like he’s been slapped. Not that Pat knows what that looks like.

He’s dipping his head and letting his hair hide his eyes and shifting his weight and grinning that goofy, buzzy grin he gets when people tell him his music is beautiful or his haircut looks good or really anything nice at all. Pat loves that look—loves that he can elicit it, especially in private—that look and a few associated looks that Pat likes to imagine are thematically related but for his eyes alone.

Anyway. He’s happy for the kid. He’ll stop by and congratulate him in person later, after the morning gets going.

* * *

 

**10:10 AM**

Brian feels like he’s floating, a little bit, when he walks back to his desk and shelves the video editing he was doing a few minutes ago in favor of clipping seven things into Evernote that he should read and take notes on with color-coded highlighters, because finally his skill set of academic research and video game enthusiasm and doing goofy shit on camera have connected.

Fuck, she liked it. Tara liked it.

(Well, and the internet liked it. That too.)

He’s so happy he’s smiling like an idiot at the swirl of people getting back to work. His eyes catch Clayton, who pauses and leans on his desk, coffee in hand.

“She should have said congrats to you too,” Brian says at once, because Clayton did all the fucking camera stuff, standing there for hours while Brian babbled and missed his own stupid cues. “You did half the work.”

Clayton shakes his head, but says thanks. Apparently, he wasn’t annoyed, at how many takes Brian took to get it right. He thinks it was fun. He wants to film on the next one too, if Brian’s cool with that.

Brian stutters, because of course Clayton should work on the next one—Clayton is  _amazing_

(he’s fucking great at dramatic close-ups, at lighting, at being patient and not freaking Brian out, at understanding what Brian wants the video to do when he only has a picture in his head and can’t find the goddamn words to spit it out).

He gushes all this roughly in Clayton’s direction, and barely has time to finish before Pat pulls off his headphones and says “Hey, Clay, you busy? I want some advice about this.”

Clayton nods cheerfully and claps Brian on the shoulder and wanders over. The friendly, approving touch lingers on Brian’s psyche for a minute. He did good. Clayton had fun. Clayton is proud of him.

* * *

 

**10:40 AM**

Pat waits for his moment, but people keep stopping by the kid’s desk.

It makes sense. They wanna congratulate him.

And pitch ideas, apparently.

Pat smiles. Brian will really like that. That people are pitching ideas  _to_  him, trying to get his approval. Hopefully, it’ll give him some confidence. He’s already pulling the weight of two team members, around here, and Pat knows that as he gets more comfortable he might even take it up to three.

Brian’s smiling constantly, and Pat lets that be enough for the morning. He can get his own thing in later. Let the kid have his moment.

He does look over a lot, though. Brian’s hopping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, every time people come over and tell him something nice. Pat knows he gets jumpy and buzzy, when he gets compliments, and it would be absolutely unbearable to the poor kid to just sit and let people drop praise in his lap. He needs to be able to stand, to fidget, to say thank you so much and make charming, lovely, sparkling eye contact, and touch people’s arms with real affection and tell them how much he likes their work, too.

It feels good, seeing the kid so happy, even if he wishes for just a selfish, ugly second that he could get a moment alone with him.

Brian tries to catch his eye, and Pat lets him, and smiles. Brian leans back, relieved, his expression so pleased and hopeful, that Pat’s heart is consoled, a little bit.

He doesn’t stop looking, though.

* * *

 

**11:50 AM**

Brian’s on his way over to Pat’s desk to ask what he wants for lunch, when Simone and Jenna accost him.

“Pat can’t have you every day,” Simone insists archly, grasps his shoulder. “C’mon. Us girls are taking you out for celebration lunch. And to talk to you about the relative merits of Kingdom Hearts. Jenna has a thesis I think you need to hear.”

Jenna is pulling his other elbow. “I know you have the next few planned. But it would be killer. Look, you’re a lit major, right? It’s gonna make sense to you, I swear. No one else gets this shit.”

“Creative writing,” Brian blushes, looks down. “I’d love—but—”

He looks up at Pat, and feels for some reason like he needs to make a request. Even though they didn’t have formal plans. They never do. They just go out together, more often than not. But he doesn’t know how to ask permission, that doesn’t look unutterably weird in public.

Pat just quirks an eyebrow. “Go on, then.”

Brian blushes, for some reason, at this, but lets the girls bustle him off to some taqueria they like and buy him a midday margarita (despite his protests) and talk to him about Kingdom Hearts for two hours, which is the longest lunch break Brian’s ever taken in his short working life.

He feels Pat’s eyes on him, when he comes back in. He’s pink now, from praise and attention and booze, and he’s probably imagining whatever glint he sees in there. Right?

* * *

 

**2:15 PM**

Pat’s known Simone for a long time, and he’s fairly sure that she’s fucking with him on purpose, when she steals Brian away for lunch. He would bet he’s been staring at Brian a little too much this morning, and Simone is always scolding him for staring at the kid “like a hound dog” and being entirely too obvious with his affections around the office.

_Some of us just want to get our work fuck on and not have to do any HR paperwork, Patrick. So stop getting all googly-eyed before you blow up Brian’s spot. Or more importantly, my spot._

He suspects her meddling then—but later he’s sure—

when Brian’s back late with rosy cheeks and a sweet, contrite look, that jumps all the way straight to fear when Tara walks by. Kid thinks he’s going to get scolded for taking too long at lunch. Pat just shakes his head. Brian never learns.

Tara tells him something quick that makes Brian smile and blush again—it’s really striking, on his already-rosy cheeks—and ruffles his hair like he’s her favorite kid brother.

All right, it’s been long enough. He has to tell Brian he’s done a good job, before the workday is done. Or at least, invite him over for dinner, so that he can tell him at length. Yeah. That’s probably the best call.

* * *

 

**2:20 PM**

Brian’s barely sat down, and Tara’s barely walked away, when someone is touching his shoulder.

He turns—it’s Pat, of course—standing by him quite close.

“Had a few at lunch, hmm?” Pat asks, and his voice sounds amused, and something else.

“Um,” Brian squeaks, because he’d hoped he wasn’t so obvious. “Just one—Simone said—”

“I’ll bet she did.” Pat’s fingers are tapping on his shoulder.

Brian wants to stand, or at least to turn and look up at Pat’s face, but the hand is pressing on him a little and he wonders if maybe he’s supposed to not do that, at work. Maybe it makes Pat uncomfortable.

“You gonna be working late tonight, Bri?”

“Um. I probably should, but…”

The hand tightens, a smidge. “Too many interruptions, today?”

Something in the tone, the hand, blurs the lines a little bit, for Brian. Pat sounds a little—

“Brian!! C’mere!” Simone calls him over loudly

(she’s always loud)

“Jenna found that clip she was talking about!”

Brian would jump up, normally, when someone called him like that, insistent and cheerful and bright and demanding, but he turns his head instead, to look at Pat’s arm. Tentative. Pat had been wanting to say something, he was pretty sure.

The taller man bends down to whisper something quite close to his face, and his smile is like a normal, friendly, work smile, but his voice is a bit dark. “Go play with the girls. But you’re mine tonight. Be ready to go at five.”

A thrill goes down his spine.

He fucking knew it. The way Pat had been looking at him

(like he was happy, and proud, but also annoyed

(that so many people were getting in the way of him being happy and proud)

that glint in his eye, happy and sharp and observant

( _possessive_ )).

Simone quirks a look at them, because Pat’s still leaning over, and Brian hasn’t responded to her call at all. He blushes. He doesn’t know quite what to do. It’s a lot, the buzz of everyone’s attention all day

(and the buzz of Pat’s attention, right now),

it makes him feel hot and bothered and bashful and desired

(and, truth be told, the way Pat looks at him

(like he’s half-decided to take Brian home early and fuck him so hard that he has to call in sick tomorrow)

is enough to give Brian an embarrassing work erection, if he lets himself),

so he sucks in a breath

(you have to go for what you want in this world, you have to risk it to have any fun)

and flicks his hair up at Pat, and rolls his eyes playfully, and says, none too quiet

(brattily)

“Fiiiiine. Can I go now?”

Pat taps his shoulder once, twice, warningly, and then lets him go.

Brian doesn’t look back, as he sweeps over to check out whatever Jenna’s got queued up.

But he knows Pat is looking.

* * *

 

**3:00 PM**

Pat doesn’t get a lot done, in the next hour.

Brian’s all over the office, though.

It’s pretty normal, if it weren’t for—

—well, maybe that teasing was just a flippant thing. Just a quick one-liner. Didn’t mean anything. Brian’s just—

—he doesn’t usually get  _quite_  this chatty, though, flitting from person to person, breaking them out of their work with a question or a joke and indulging himself in their warm smiles. He’s got that third-child anything-for-a-laugh energy, sure, but he also acts like a new guy in the office (even though he’s not) and tries to keep his head down and work hard and all that dumb shit that they grind into you at these good preppy schools.

Maybe it’s the day-drinking, loosening him up. Or he’s just drunk on praise and feeling good and—

— _touching_  people a lot.

Does Brian always touch people that much? What’s the normal hugs-per-capita ratio, for the Polygon office? Pat confesses he hasn’t really thought about it before, as long as the score is Pat = 0, Other People = whatever, but for once in his goddamn life he’s looking at people having casual, friendly, physical social contact and he wants in on that, for some reason.

Goddammit Brian.

He catches himself glaring, and that makes him more annoyed, and that means he catches himself glaring more. Fuck. If Brian’s not doing this on purpose—

which he almost certainly is—

but if he’s  _not_ , then Pat’s definitely going to hurt the kid’s feelings, getting worked up like this.

He goes to get some water.

He makes sure it takes a while. Even does some of the stupid crossword in the stupid break room. He needs to cool down. There are two hours left in the workday, and if he doesn’t do any editing today he’s gonna have to wake up early tomorrow too.

In the hall on the way back, he runs into—of course, of fucking  _course_ —Brian and Simone and Clayton. They’re going off to shoot some scene for video game theater, he can tell by the turtlenecks.

“Hey Pat,” Clayton says easily, and Pat fights his scowl into a normal expression.

Well, normal for him, so probably still a little scowly.

“Clay. You guys shooting?” And then, he hates himself, but. “Need a hand?”

Clayton shrugs noncommittally, because he’s a good dude, and he never says no to someone who wants to help, and he never really asks for help, either.

“It’s just a  _quickie_ ,” Brian cuts in archly, and—

Oh. He’s definitely fucking doing this on purpose. His face is glowy and cheeky and his eyes are bright. Son of a—

“It is,” Simone affirms. “Like three lines. I fucked it up.” She laughs. “Well, more than usual, anyway. Don’t worry about us, Patrick.”

Pat lets them bustle off to film and heads back to his desk. Slams a drawer a little harder than it needs to be slammed, because it just. Feels good.

Well, if Brian’s going to try to work him up, he might as well let himself get worked up.

* * *

 

**5:00 PM**

Brian decides he’s going to be late.

It takes a minute to figure out how to do it. But he knows Chris and Dave and Ross go out for beers sometimes, on Fridays, and he thinks if he happens to be near their desks when they are getting ready to go, they might just feel obliged to invite him.

He has to fabricate a bit of a fight with the copy machine, but he’s unpicking staples all his wrongly-collated copies at just the right moment, and it works more or less absolutely perfectly.

They chat with him a while—give him a few compliments that make him blush, and they  _do_  invite him—he tells them he’s really keen to, but he’s a little tired, and he left his ID at home—they laugh at that, uproariously, and say oh my god Jesus Christ Brian please don’t make us feel so old—and Brian shrugs and grins mischievously and tells them  _next time_ —and Pat walks in looking for him at around five-fifteen, right when Chris says “ _are you sure you’re legal, doogie howser_ ,” and then they all laugh and wave and tell him next time for sure, and leave.

He’s barely able to shove down the smile at the success of his secret plans when Pat’s body is less than two inches from him, making him stagger back, against the wall.

“ _Pat_ ,” he says, and it’s in a whisper, but a little bit loud, in surprise.

Pat’s  _never_ —not like this—not at  _work_ —

but they’re just a step behind the copier

(maybe out of view

(but Allegra’s desk is right there

(has she gone home yet)))?

“I told you to be somewhere at five,” he growls, and his voice is low, but not that low, and Brian’s heart is beating fast. “Did I not?”

“Yeah.” Brian affirms, and lets his voice be shy and wavery and feather-soft. Lets himself tilt his head up, and his eyes go wide.

“Did something come up?”

Pat’s voice is neutral, his eyebrows lifted. The fierceness pauses, for a second, and Brian knows that this is his way of saying— _decide what comes next_ —Brian has a choice—to give a good excuse. (Or not.)

He just shrugs. “Nah. I just didn’t think—”

Hands are gripping his waist, then, fingers digging in to the space below the points of his hips. He squeaks.

“You haven’t been thinking all day. You’ve been distracting the fuck out of anyone who walks by.”

“That’s not fair,” Brian whines, “I just—”

Pat squeezes again, to cut him off. “Don’t give me that innocent act. You know what you do to people. You can’t go flaunting it around the whole office. Fucking cocktease.”

Brian closes his eyes and takes in a breath. Pat’s  _never_ —at work—

“You have two minutes to get your shit and meet me at the elevator.” Pat directs, pulling away. “Or else your ass is sleeping on the floor.”

Brian scrambles. He  _really_  doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

And if people see him, looking flushed and frazzled and frantic, throwing his things together, then racing after Pat into the elevator…fuck it.

Pat pulls an arm around his waist on the subway ride home

(even though that’s not the kind of thing he ever does)

and when a little old lady gives them a disapproving glare

(Brian blushes and tries to pull away

(he’s not permitted to))

Patrick just fucking stares her down.

* * *

 

**5:52:01 PM**

The instant his keys are out of the lock, Pat shoves Brian in.

Brian stumbles artfully and flips around to face Pat. He  _giggles_ , the little shit.

“He- _llo_  papi. Someone’s ho—”

but he doesn’t get to finish whatever crap he’s going to say, because the only thing Pat can do with that is pick him up and slam him against the front door and crush his mouth onto that smart little smirk.

It feels so  _good_ , to finally get his lips on Brian.

He’s warm and squirmy and reactive under Pat’s fingers. It takes self-restraint to keep the pacing civil—to get the shirt open without breaking the kiss—or any buttons—Brian’s particular about buttons—to get to Brian’s chest and neck exposed—

though he can’t resist raking his nails down the soft skin and leaving a few red trails.

Brian takes a quick gasp of air—maybe because Pat’s grabbing at his crotch hard and fumbling his belt open—maybe because this is the first chance he’s had to breathe in the past seventy seconds.

“You’re an  _animal_ , Pat Gill,” he hears Brian sigh happily, and he wants to respond to that, but he has a few things he needs to do first, things that involve narrowing the space between them in every possible dimension—

the space between his fingers and that shock of hair—

the space between his teeth and Brian’s collarbone—

the space between boxers and body, where Pat’s hand fits quite nicely.

It’s a healthy bit of indulging other senses—taste and touch and smell and heat—and the squeaks and moans and sighs—the other senses need to catch up a bit, to drink Brian in, because he’s been just  _looking_  all day.

Eventually, though, Pat pulls his hands back and props them on the door on either side above Brian’s head, and just lets himself glance down.

It’s perfect, the way he looks right now—his hair is a mess and his shirt is wrinkled and shoved aside and his skin is blotchy-red and shiny from Pat’s saliva and his pants are halfway down his ass where his hips are arching up to find Pat’s touch and his little ridiculous beautiful fingers are curled in Pat’s shirt in a sort of plaintive gesture that makes him want to tie them down and give him exactly what he’s begging for—

he’s perfect, disheveled and naughty and  _perfect_.

“Bed?” Brian says hopefully, eyes shining up like stars.

“I think I might need to fuck you right here in the kitchen,” Pat growls.

Brian laughs. “Pat, you have a  _studio apartment_ —it’s  _eight steps_ —”

Pat cuts this shenanigans off with another kiss. Maybe he can’t get the kid’s attention at work, but at least he knows when he shoves his tongue down Brian’s throat and gets a hand down his pants again and gropes, the sounds Brian makes are his, and his alone.

* * *

 

**6:21 PM**

After Pat gropes him thoroughly against the door,

(so thoroughly that so toothily that there is  _absolutely no way_  a collar could hide hickeys like this

(and even if it could, Simone will spot them and cackle at him, and everyone will hear))

and after Pat shoves him to his knees in the kitchen and fucks his face with gusto,

(damn, it’s  _finally_  shorts weather, and he’s going to have to wear long pants for like a week

(or just have Jonah cocking an eyebrow at him again and asking whose floors he’s been scrubbing))

Brian’s actually starting to worry that they’ll never make it to the bed at all—

and he really  _will_  be sleeping on the rug—

hot and bothered and nowhere to go.

So when Pat makes a sound of satisfaction and wipes his dick off (messily) on Brian’s cheek, he musters the decency to apologize.

“Sorry I was a little shit today,” he says in a rush, trying to look contrite. “When I saw how you were looking at me I…I…I couldn’t resist.”

“Neither can I, apparently,” Pat says affectionately, letting a hand drape on Brian’s bare shoulder.

He estimates he has about two minutes of fuzzy, post-orgasm affection before Pat remembers exactly how much of a shit he was, and really lets him have it,

( _the best paaaaart_ )

so he lets himself lean his forehead on Pat’s arm, and be kind of sincere for a second, even though he’s sitting on his knees and his glasses are who-knows where and he’s aching and sparking for more. “You make me feel like—like—my god it’s stupid but—it makes me want— _everything_ —when you look at me like that—like you like me and I’m good and I’m  _yours_  and you’re just ticking down the seconds until you can take me home and make me say it.”

Pat chuckles. “You know what you do to me. You wind me up on purpose.”

“Yeah,” Brian admits, and kisses Pat’s wrist for good measure. “Today was so crazy—I had, like, so much energy bouncing around—and everyone was so  _nice_ —I literally have been dying for anyone to, like, see this and like it and tell me that my ideas are good—give me any hint that I’m doing okay work—for Tara to tell me she was proud—to feel like I fit in—and then I had it all at once—from  _everyone_ —and still the only thing I wanted all day was for you to drag me into the break room and pet my hair and tell me how good I am at sucking cock.”

He flushes

(because it’s embarrassing

(and because he knows it’s naughty, to fish for compliments re: cock-sucking directly after doing it))

and Pat ruffles his hair.

“You’re good at a lot of things, Bri. Everyone knows you’re incredibly fucking talented. It’s practically indecent.”

Brian lets the warm bashful feeling pour over him, and drops his gaze because he doesn’t want to grin too stupidly, too many times today.

Pat bends down to whisper in his ear

(his breath is hot and starting to get dark again).

“Oh, babe, you think I’m kidding? You should read your youtube comments. About that tight grey suit. About how you stripped for them. You’re clever and funny and you worked  _real_  hard, baby, but when you open your pretty little mouth like that and let yourself get excited—well, let’s just say it’s easy to imagine—how nice you’ll look, tied spread-eagle to my bed—writhing—begging for some attention—”

“Please, please,” Brian doesn’t waste any time. “Oh please—”

Pat laughs and pulls him up. “All right all right. Since you asked  _so_  nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:   
> \- sex: oral  
> \- BDSM: D/s dynamics, passing mentions of bondage, a quick line of negotiation  
> \- kinks: work flirts


	9. (gimme some sugar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what can he say, pat likes a boy in a skirt.
> 
>    
>  _i know she's up to something / but how can i run when she's just / keel-hauled twenty-one to nothing / i'll stay next to the steel coal oven 'cause / she's my man_

Pat’s nice enough, when Brian inevitably loses, to give him two choices.

(Brian doesn’t gamble,

(but he  _does_  make bets, because he’s good at truth and he’s good at dares, so why the fuck not?))

Honestly, with the wacky profession he’s found himself in and the kind of name he’s made for himself around the office, the Sailor Moon cosplay would probably be less embarrassing

(even with the pigtails)

but Brian’s never been afraid of bold sartorial choices before, so if he’s going to let Pat have this, he’s gonna  _own it_ , goddammit.

To his surprise, no one even glances at him on the subway,

(a huge relief, since he’s alone)

probably because it’s New York and everyone’s seen more dramatic shit than a boy in a skirt.

 

* * *

 

It’s not the cross-dressing, so much, that makes Brian take a few deep breaths in the elevator. He’s done his fair share of that, before, because of drama, and dance, and looking for a laugh, and having a sister, and just being generally not afraid to fuck with whatever clothes expectations people want to project onto his gangly body. This isn’t the weirdest thing he’s worn in the office, by a country mile

(and he doesn’t even have to shoot video of it and put it on the internet, this time).

In fact, if Pat had just told him “ _Wear a skirt on Tuesday_ ,” he would probably have laughed and said “Sure!” and found something he could rock, maybe a kilt, or a circle skirt, he doesn’t think a pencil would suit his skinny ass…

Anyway.

Yeah, it’s not that it’s a skirt…

it’s that Pat picked it for him.

Very carefully, actually,

(like, so carefully and took so long that Brian was afraid Laura was gonna come home early

(and  _yes_ , he did ask beforehand, if he could borrow some clothes

(they can usually swap clothes, even if Brian’s taller)

but he didn’t tell Laura that  _Pat_  would be the one rifling through her things, contemplating each option for over an hour, pulling things out and holding them up and giving Brian filthy looks and then shaking his head and putting each one back)).

He talked it out, while he was picking, too, murmuring to himself. Brian was kinda flattered, by the things he said— _not your style_ — _nope. won’t sit right on your hips_ — _that doesn’t look comfortable to sit down in_ — _too long, I want to see your legs_. He didn’t even know that Pat thought about what his colors were, how his body fit into clothes, how much he preferred looking sharp and cute and flirty but not  _too_ flirty

It’s really embarrassing, when the outfit that Pat picks out for him is  _totally_  something that he would wear,

(a simple chambray a-line that falls about halfway down his thigh

(it’s evocative of faded denim jorts, in color, but a bit cleaner, lighter, tidier)

and a sleeveless white boatneck that’s neither preppy nor casual, with clean red stripes

(on Laura it’s probably just a regular short blouse, but on Brian it’s almost a crop top

(not  _quite_  but almost, if he moves too fast)))

and Pat makes him try it on and spin around a few times, and try something else on and then try that back on, and Brian knows long before they’re done which one Pat’s going to pick, because of the way his eyes glint, but Pat wants to make him jam his ass in Laura’s clubbing skirts a few more times anyway, just to make him blush.

When Brian put on the outfit this morning, again, it was a  _bit_  more fun and flirty than he remembered

(probably because it’s no longer contrasted against that tiny pleated number he didn’t even know Laura  _had_ )

and he contemplated hiding it under some understated long jacket,

but yknow,

(when you go to town you might as well go in a Lincoln)

he had a sleek slim bomber jacket hiding in the back of his closet that was made for this outfit, so why not.

Anyway.

He can’t think about this stuff right now, not now, not in the elevator. He takes a deep breath. Here goes.

 

* * *

 

No one says anything for a while.

Probably because he was there early (like usual) and as it turns out, no one really cares what you’re wearing down below when you’re at a desk.

Pat grins at him, when he gets in (late) but Brian ignores him, the bastard. He can grin all morning, for all Brian cares. There’s plenty of work he can do at his desk, and he has no meetings, and he didn’t really need to pick up those papers, anyway, at least not until…later.

Usually he gets hungry first and goes and bugs Pat

(they go out to lunch, most days)

but today Pat can do what he damn well pleases, Brian is staying put.

At around 11.30 Pat wanders over, though.

“These yours? Found ‘em in the copier,” Pat says solicitously, and Brian says  _thank you, Pat—_

( _fuck you, pat_ , his glare says)

and Pat says “My pleasure,” and really,  _really_  means it, and Brian blushes.

“You got lunch plans?” Pat asks

(which makes Brian feel nervous but also  _nice_

(because Pat almost never asks him, he’s usually the one asking, the one pestering Pat, the one that breaks Pat’s expression from solemn concentration and drags him out to some new food truck he’s heard of))

“Not yet,” Brian says, letting his guard down for a second, and Pat calls out—

“Hey Jenna! what’s the name of that hipster coffee place you like—the one with the good sandwiches?”

She’s talking to Jeff, but her head perks up with such a big smile

(Jenna’s still really new, Brian forgets sometimes,

(he remembers what it was like, when literally any time Pat asked him a question, or remembered something he’d ever said before, it made his face look happy like that))

“Ooh! Tayyib? Are you—going?”

“Thinkin' about it. Wanna come?”

“Yes!! Oh but—” her face falls. “It’s a little outta the way.”

“That’s cool,” Pat announces. “We’ll make it a working lunch. That okay, Brian?”

There’s literally no wayto say no to this that won’t shutter Jenna’s smiling face, so Brian says  _sure_ , and pretty soon he and Jenna and Pat and also Jeff are bustling out of the office and into the subway, and although he feels like everyone in the office is staring at him, he doesn’t hear so much as a snicker.

* * *

 

The subway isn’t bad—the four of them are clustered together tight, laughing and talking about projects—and if Brian looks a little fey, it’s okay, because Jenna looks a little butch, and Jeff’s got his scruffy warm charm and Pat his sharp grown-up goth angles and it’s Manhattan and everybody’s just feelin’ themselves, okay.

They score a booth and order their coffees and chat so normal and cheerful that Brian starts to relax

(Pat occasionally glances at him

(sometimes with desire, sometimes with a raised eyebrow that asks,  _you ok?_ )

and occasionally puts a hand on his knee

(it’s not like that, though)

but mostly he behaves).

When Brian slides out to let Jeff get to the bathroom, he sticks annoyingly and there’s fabric scrunching and he has to adjust a bit—and he decides to just go for it.

“Ugh,” he huffs, pulling it down where it’s hitched up on his hips too high. “ _God_ , Jenna, how do you deal with these things? At least shorts stay put.”

Jenna smiles. “Yeah, but what if you get a wedgie in shorts? Then you’ve gotta, like,  _dig in_  there, and it’s weird. Everyone’s fixing skirts in public. It’s not even, like, a thing.”

“Oh good,” Brian says, permitting himself to do some more deliberate pulling and flattening, then. “Noted.”

“You look really good, by the way,” Jenna says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “Very you.”

He blushes a little bit, dips his head in embarrassment and sits down quickly. He forces himself to meet her eye, when her hand goes out to his arm, and her face looks a little stricken.

“Nonono—Brian, that wasn’t a dig—or it wasn’t trying to be—it was a compliment—I  _swear_. I mean, you always look good. I like that you don’t have just like—one style.”

He gives a little relieved laugh. “Yeah. Just trying something new. I like to push it a little. Always been that way.”

“It makes me braver,” she says, and she’s staring now, ignoring Pat and with her hand on his arm and a really earnest expression on her face.

“Jenna,” Brian chides, “Don’t give me credit for that—you’re  _always_  brave.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t roll into this job with an undercut and biker tats and blue eyeshadow and all the cool pretty dresses I thought I was too fat to wear. This office is like—you are like—really  _cool_ , about everything, about yourself, and it makes me feel cool to be around you, and like it’s ok that I’m a weirdo and wear what I want and maybe I might be kinda cool too.”

Brian blinks. “Jenna, that’s like the nicest— _thank you_. Thank you. That’s really nice. You are the coolest. I don’t know h—I’m—”

She shrugs at his stuttering, glances up self-consciously. “Sorry for getting a lil real, Pat. Just had to say.”

Pat smiles and tilts his head. “No worries. I’ve told him much the same thing, although it was more about how he cons me into dancing at work.”

“You’re a good dancer,” Brian says immediately. “Plus you can do a  _handstand_!”

Conversation slides back into business, eventually, but Brian doesn’t feel bashful, not anymore, not all the way through lunch and the ride back on the subway and when he wanders back into the office he doesn’t feel like he has to hide at his desk anymore

 

* * *

 

 

On the subway back, Pat offers him his own jacket—it’s long—but Brian waves it off. He’s a little shy, at the way the more solemn-faced five-o-clock crowd’s eyes catch on him

(a few glares, a few stares, etc)

but Pat is very good at keeping between him and the rest of the car, blocking any real chance at ogling.

When they get into the apartment, Pat pauses

(maybe for a kiss…?)

and looks down at him thoughtfully and strokes a hand down his arm.

“Was today…okay?”

Brian nods and looks up openly. “Of course.”

“Even on the subway?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian shrugs. “I mean, sometimes I get a little shy, but yknow. you just gotta lean in. I wear two watches, remember? and carried your ass all the way to Time Square?”

“You did do that,” Pat smiles. They drop their stuff and sit together, on the couch, just for a minute. Brian shoves himself under Pat’s arm, which bends up easily to allow him.

“What about you? Good? Did it fill your head with dirty thoughts?”

Pat’s quiet, about that.

“Is that a yes?”

“It shouldn’t.” Pat’s tone is guilty. “You look good. Today. Every day. Totally normal, and good, in anything you wear. Skirts, suits, whatever.”

“Hmm, true, you also get hot and bothered about suits.” Brian cocks his head reflectively. “Which is basically like the opposite of skirts, if you think about it. What’s up with that?”

“I think I just like dressing you up.” That’s a hard thing for Pat to say, Brian knows, because of how he looks away when he says it, lets his dark hair hide his eyes. “There’s something about— _choosing_  for you—that just—”

“You should help me do my wardrobe for all the unraveled eps,” Brian says suddenly, and keeps his tone light and nonjudgmental

(and also shifts his body around, so now he’s straddling Pat’s lap, and his arms are around Pat’s neck, even as he’s talking)

and says “I need suit help. I think, like, the more layers I can take off the better. So I can get more and more frazzled. It worked pretty well the first time, so…”

“Anything for you,” Pat says, in a slightly strangled tone, although his eyes aren’t looking at Brian’s face but instead at the blunt bottom edge of Brian’s shirt, where it’s lifting up and showing a hint of belly.

Brian settles himself a little bit naughtily. “You pleased with your choices, hmm, daddy?”

Pat closes his eyes. He makes these guilty faces, when Brian says that, but he likes it (and also, Brian’s pretty sure Simone’s told him (she knows all Brian’s secrets) that this is also one of Brian’s  _things_ )

“ _Yes_ , God help me.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Hard to say,” Pat deflects, brushing his thumbs gently, softly on Brian’s hips. Like his fingers are itching to move somewhere else.

“Is it the potential for accidental upskirts? Or like, the easy access? Or just that you can doll me up a little—like a girl? Or seeing my legs? Or how it makes me walk? Or do you want me to blush—feel exposed—and kinda slutty—in front of strangers? or…”

Pat groans. “Brian, God, if you’re gonna psychoanalyze me,  _please_  don’t grind on my dick while you do it.”

“I’m trying to triangulate,” Brian grins. “I dunno where to go next. Like if I’ve gotta find a tighter skirt, or if you want me to wear a bra, or if you want me to wear it when I’ve got a big presentation, or if I should let you pick out some makeup, or if you wanna sext me some directions over the day, like  _take your panties off under your desk right now, baby_  or—”

“Holy fucking shit, kid.” Pat has one hand covering his face now, abashedly, but the other hand is on Brian’s ass, easily dipping under the soft fabric, and squeezing. “You really—you think about the  _craziest_ —filthiest, hottest—”

“I just wanna be good for you, daddy,” Brian says innocently. He tries to erase all the teasing from his voice, because he knows Pat will stay shy, if he keeps laughing and smiling and being a goof. And shy Pat is fun, but there’s  _another_  Pat, too, one that gets a little bolder, when he knows Brian really, really,  _really_  wants to play along. “Will you show me how you want me, tonight? Teach me what you like. Dress me?  _Undress_  me?”

Pat’s hands both are on his ass now, rubbing, and then sliding around to grip the front of his thighs. He takes a few deep breaths

(he’s hard

(Brian is too truth be told))

and then says, his voice rumbling and indulgent, “Of course, baby boy. Since you asked so pretty. Why don’t you go get yourself ready. Wash up. Change into something a little different.”

Brian tries not to let his face look disappointed

(damn, he’d really been hoping—)

but the disappointment breaks up, shatters, when Pat grabs for his bag and says “I brought you something else to wear, if you want” and presses a bunch of stuff—fabric, mostly—into Brian’s hands

(oh man, he went somewhere  _special_  to find this—)

and swats him on the bottom and says “Now, scoot.”

* * *

 

Brian has worn a bra before, but only over clothes, and this one fits considerably better—it’s made for flat chests, for sure—but it’s still lacy and pink and feminine in a way that makes him kinda shiver.

He’s  _definitely_  never worn garters before, though

(these are called garters, right? these strange tights that end mid-thigh and connect, with some kind of confusing strap arrangement, to the skirt?

(the skirt is really almost  _too_  much, plaid and hot pink and absolutely slutty

(it’s barely long enough to cover his asscheeks, even when he stands perfectly still)

and his dick would totally be poking out of it obscenely if there weren’t panties, too

(a black, silky mesh that is definitely designed for dicks

(because of the space, the way it holds everything together well)

but also definitely designed to be soft and sheer and delicate))).

It takes him a while, to get it all set up and looking pretty

( _fuck_ , it’s embarrassing, when he catches himself thinking that word into the mirror)

and when he finally gets things adjusted all right, he’s folding up his old clothes and feeling awkward and humiliated at how it is to bend over in this getup when his hand brushes something he forgot—

( _jesus_ , Pat)

and he squeaks in surprise

because he really  _can’t_  imagine working a plug into himself, in this outfit, not  _now_ , when he’s already dressed, and just barely mustered the last of his courage to go waltzing out of this bathroom looking like a tarted-up lingerie model and pathetically hard besides. Maybe Pat would rather put it in for him, when he’s got Brian

(laid out and panting and gasping)

lubed up and ready, and he’s whining for more, begging for it sluttily. 

It takes only a moment to decide, because

(although Brian’s promised to be good)

he’s already dressed and looking cute, dammit, and he can deal with  _that_  after Pat’s laughed at him and spun him around and teased him a little, when he’s more in the headspace and feeling good and sexy and ready. It’s easier to push himself with an audience, Brian finds, and so he has to make peace with maybe getting in trouble for it.

(Hopefully).

* * *

 

Pat’s still pretty much dressed when Brian peeks his head around the bathroom door, tentatively.

“Cmon,” Pat raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be shy.”

This directive, of course, has the opposite effect, making Brian duck back, to be coaxed.

“Let me see you, baby. I know you’re gonna look so good. Let daddy see you.”

Brian comes out, then,

(it’s a bit of a sassy outfit, really, but he decides to walk shy, not sassy)

shuffling his feet and dipping his chin down, and thinking hard about all the parts of this that will make him blush the reddest.

“Put your clothes down, baby, and let me see you.”

He drops them and, because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands,

(just hanging there, they hit the edge of the skirt weirdly, and probably ruin the look

(but on his hips would just be kinda weird))

decides to fold them behind his back.

“Beautiful,” Pat says warmly, and Brian risks a look up.

His eyes are dark and lecherous, grazing up and down, alighting here and there on clothes and angles

(and maybe on a couple of marks that haven’t totally faded, yet)

and drinking it in. He’s not laughing. He’s smiling so wide and confident now, like he’s in his element, like he knows  _exactly_  what trouble he’s going to get up to, with Brian’s clothes and Brian’s body, and he’s got everything figured out and Brian just has to be good and listen close and everything will be all right.

“Come over here,” he beckons, and when Brian does so, Pat sits on the bed and reaches out a hand and holds him at arm’s length, inspecting him. His hands touch, just lightly, everything—fix the elastic where it’s twisted, up top—tug a little at the skirt—feel under the edges of the garters

(which is right on the tender part of Brian’s thigh, and makes him jump with the delicious tickle of it).

—and dip under the little ruffle in the front to pat Brian’s dick, smooth against it in the satin.

“Good,” Pat says, ignoring Brian’s sigh, when he’s done with the front. “Now, turn around.”

It’s easier, facing away—he doesn’t have to see Pat’s face, when he’s running his hands under the strap on Brian’s back, petting—pushing a finger between his hips and the skirt—rubbing up the back of his legs slowly, tracing the garters up to his ass. He fondles through the delicate material carefully, and then nudges Brian’s legs apart with only the slightest push, runs a finger

(it makes Brian shudder)

up the crack of his ass, and pauses.

His fingers tap for a second and Brian parts his lips and squeaks, because he  _totally_  knows what’s coming.

“Hmmm. I think you forgot something.”

Brian shivers. “I—I didn’t know—if—”

Pat turns him around, and pulls him close, so his knees are between Pat’s knees, and he almost can’t dip his chin low enough to avoid seeing Pat’s disapproving face.

The hand that jerks his chin up is soft, but also a little stern. “No lying. I know you. You were rushing.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian says, and it really is sincere, the blush, this time. “I forgo—”

Pat is playing with his lip idly, though, and it makes talking hard. “ _Maybe_  you forgot. Or maybe you just didn’t want to do it on your own. Maybe you wanted me to do it for you?”

Brian colors, but nods.

The sigh Pat gives is long-suffering. “All right. You’re just too hard to resist, baby. I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Thank you,” Brian glows, and tries to look sweet.

“But first, I think you deserve a little scolding. For being so needy. I know you can do it yourself.”

He swallows. Says nothing.

“Is that fair? If I punish you?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

“Good boy,” Pat nods. “Now, tell daddy how he should punish you. What do you deserve.”

Brian’s heart jumps to his throat at the question,

(fuck,  _fuck_ , what if he chooses something too freaky, and Pat—)

“I—I don’t—”

Pat sighs and strokes Brian’s hair out of his face. “I can choose for you if you need me to, baby. I know how to make you sorry.” Brian’s spine tingles at that. “I just thought you might want to help me out.”

Brian closes his eyes. He  _does_  want, but—

well, fuck it, they have safewords for a reason—

“You should spank me,” he says, and he feels rather than sees Pat’s nod, and pushes himself forward a little bit, continues—“with your belt. Then I’ll remember to be good.”

His eyes are still screwed shut, so he can’t see whether Pat looks horrified or is just raising an curious eyebrow.

There’s a beat that to Brian feels like an eternity,

(god,  _god_ , what if—)

“Hmm. Such a smart little one. You want to be sitting down all week and remembering, hmm?”

Brian nods hotly, embarrassed, eyes still closed.

Pat runs a hand up his ass and fondles it, lovingly. “We’ll have to make sure you don’t wear those slutty little shorts of yours, tomorrow, unless you want people to see the bruises.”

The warm, amused tone is such a relief that Brian nearly collapses.

“And you have to be quiet, sweetheart. The neighbors can’t be hearing you squealing.”

Brian nods eagerly, and Pat stands. “All right then.”

* * *

 

Pat bends him over quite a few things, before he decides where to do it.

They try the bed first. It’s too awkward a height, though—too many pillows required. The desk is hard and cold and Brian finds its rough angles sexy, but it rattles too much when Pat takes a practice swat and possibly Ikea furniture just isn’t built for this kind of manhandling.

The chair looks promising, but Brian worries that he won’t be able to hold himself up on his arms the right way, so he whimpers and pleads, and Pat relents.

Finally they figure it out; the couch is  _perfect_

(it’s a little too high, leaning over the back

(which is probably ideal from Pat’s perspective, so that Brian’s forced on his toes)

but it works, when Pat pushes his head down toward the pillows and adjusts his hips)

and Brian takes a deep shuddering breath and tries to relax and tense at the same time.

Pat is caressing his ass and patting it teasingly. “You ready, babe?”

“Yeah,” Brian says, and he thinks he can be forgiven for sounding a little nervous, with this much buildup.

“Now remember. You’re gonna stay still and quiet, right? And just take your punishment.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good. Let me practice my aim a bit.”

He steps up close to Brian, puts a hand on the small of his back, and just touches the looped leather to Brian’s ass. It’s enough to make him jump, at this point

(and it’s  _certainly_  enough to get his dick twitching where it’s pinned against the pillows).

Pat taps a few times on each cheek, only a suggestion of a swat, but it’s enough for Brian to feel it—

(it’s a wide belt, so it’s not going to cut, he doesn’t think

(even if Pat goes a little hard)

but it probably  _will_  bruise, especially the day after)

and to start getting nervous and excited and guilty and all the other feelings he pushes into the bottom of his gut.

“All right, baby boy. Let’s do ten. I can’t spend all night keeping you in line.”

Brian shivers. “Do you—do you want me to count?”

Pat chuckles a little, at that. “So clever, you. Yes, that’d be good. Keep quiet, but count for me.”

Brian presses his forearms into the cushions and gets ready, but he knows how Pat is. He’s going to take a minute, getting started. Psyching himself up.

Something touches him—

(he jumps)

but it’s a soft thing. A caress, just a hand.

“Such a shame,” Pat murmurs. “Your little ass looks so good right now. Raised up high for me. So pretty and pale. It’s going to be all ruined when I’m through.”

Brian chokes a little into the pillows.

“It’s a bad sign if you’re already making noise,” he sounds amused. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“I’ll be good,” Brian swears.

“I know you’ll try,” Pat drags a hand down to push his legs apart a little more, just a few centimeters. “You’ll ask for a gag if you need it, won’t you? If you can’t be good without something to suck on.”

He shivers. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good boy. Here we go, then.”

It’s still a long beat, before anything does go, long enough for the tension in Brian’s shoulders to loosen a bit, in doubt

(if he needs to—)

_SMACK_

It’s loud, and Brian starts, but doesn’t make any noise, other than a little sucked in breath, and then a very small, “One.”

* * *

 

The first few are noisy but not very hard, as Pat warms to his positioning. Brian stays very still, trying to ignore the way his ass and his entire body are heating with the attention, trying to count in the calmest, most dispassionate voice possible—

around five, Pat gets a little more confident, and Brian barely stifles a gasp—

then six  _actually_  elicits a gasp, maybe because Pat quite liked that last one—

and the next two are harder, and in quick succession, with what Brian privately appreciates as excellent aim, so they all land in one spot and really smart. He counts absolutely automatically, so by the time they’ve hit nine

(it makes him squirm a bit, and Pat laughs)

he’s already figured out how much more he can handle, and how naughty he needs to be, to get what he wants.

The ninth one is nice and hard, on the left side, but he doesn’t say anything.

Pat makes a  _hmph_  sound, and strikes again, a little harder, but in the same place.

Brian doesn’t say anything again, and jumps when a hand palms his ass, pressing into the places where it’s burning with heat.

“Forgetting something?”

“Sorry,” he says quickly

(though he’s not).

And he counts nine, but doesn’t say anything on the next one, and thrums with pleasure when Pat gives a little angry warning growl.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Brian turns, then, looks back, up, and gives a quick little smile. “Doing what, daddy?”

He’s surprised

(but enthused)

when Pat grabs his hair and yanks his head up. “Don’t fuck with me. I know you. You’re down there grinning like an idiot when I’m working hard trying to put some discipline in you.”

“I’m sor— _ahh_ ”

“You’re not. You’re not even fucking  _paying attention_ , Brian. You’re just grinding into the couch with your slutty little hips and not thinking about anything except getting yourself off. I’m going to spend all night taking care of you, and teasing you, and fucking you the way you like, and this is the thanks I get?”

Brian’s heart stutters a little, because Pat’s tone is  _so_  angry, and he stammers “I—I didn’t—mean—”

“Of course you didn’t mean it. You never mean it. You just shake your ass and flirt and pretend to be so sweet and shy, and get exactly what you want, don’t you.”

It’s a little embarrassing, to be called out  _so_  directly, and also Pat’s hand in his hair is pretty fierce, so he just makes some vague apologetic sounds rather than mustering something clever.

“Hmm. Don’t like to hear it like that, huh? Well, what do you think about this—”

He pulls back on Brian’s head hard, so that he can lean over and get his mouth to hiss in Brian’s ear.

“Let’s see how high you can count, baby boy. Let’s see if we can shake some real tears out of your pretty little face.”

Brian gulps.

* * *

 

He’s almost at twenty when he starts wondering if Pat will  _actually_  be able to make him cry.

He could fake cry, now, because his ass is burning so bad, and Pat’s getting better at this, so his strikes are now uniformly hard and confident and each one smarts like the fucking dickens.

Pat also has a fucking  _great_  instinct for the value of anticipation, so he’ll do a few, quick, and then step away

(leaving Brian, frankly, trembling)

and busy himself with something else, as if Brian’s flaming red cheeks are only a secondary interest of his, at the moment. Brian takes the opportunity to take some deep, steadying breaths, and decide that no, if he’s going to cry tonight, he’s going to make Pat earn it, because they’ve never ever done this before, and hopefully he’s enjoying himself as much as he seems to be.

The hand on his ass does get a choking sound out of him though

(it’s  _definitely_  not a sob, not yet

(Brian has more endurance than that)

although it sounds suspiciously sob-like, in the quiet room)

and this is met by that dark chuckle that Brian fears and also loves.

“You’re starting to get it,” Pat murmurs. “Finally. You are really going to have to make it up to me, after all this.”

Brian laughs threadily at that, because Pat is so good at layering threats on threats, and it makes wonderful fear curl in his stomach every time.

“Now where were we. Fifteen?”

It’s true, that Brian’s a brat, but he knows better than to correct that. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good. Keep counting then, sweetie.”

The first one that gets a yelp out of him is not even that hard—he just thinks Pat’s stepped away

(maybe by design)

and is taking a steadying breath when

_SMACK_

it comes hard and fast and yanks a little shout out of his throat. He’s readies himself to apolo—

_SMACK_

_SMACK_

_SMACK_

—three more, hard and fast, in the same place, make him screech with shock and pain most indelicately.

“P-please,” he gasps, as soon as he can get in a breath. “I’m s-sorr—”

_SMACK_

He chokes, loud, on his apology again, and bites his lip hard to stop from making more ruckus.

Pat presses a hand right into his ass, right where he was just hitting—

_fuck_  it hurts—

and drawls dangerously, “Now, I think you remember what we said about noise. And counting.”

Brian’s heart jumps when he realizes he legitimately

(no joke, no fucking around here)

has  _no idea_  what number that is, because there were just a bunch and he was kind of busy

(with the not-shouting)

and it’s not a put-on when his voice trembles “Please— _please_ —I lost c-count, I’m sorry.”

Pat sighs heavily, and pinches him

( _fuck_ )

and says. “Oh, I know. I know you did. Probably on purpose. Probably because you want me to start  _all over again_.”

Brian’s breath hitches, because he knows he can’t  _actually_  take that many again

(and fuck, he really doesn’t want to safeword

(not when Pat is doing so fucking well))

so instead he just lets himself beg, whispery and desperate. “Please, no. Please. I can’t, Pat, I  _can’t_. I can’t take—”

“Shhh,” Pat hushes him. “I think we both know you can take a lot, baby.”

Pat claws down his back, and although it’s wicked—he’s just grateful the fingers aren't gripping his ass anymore.

“Let’s go back to seventeen. Okay?”

“Okay,” Brian whimpers, and even though they’re not counting up  _to_  anything, so it shouldn’t  _matter_ , it makes his gut squirm, the next time Pat smacks his ass hard and he has to say a number that he knows he’s already said,  _twice_.

* * *

 

The tears do come, but it’s maybe not obvious

(his face is buried in the pillows to stifle his moans)

and as long as his numbers sound reasonably normal he thinks he can keep it up a bit longer.

Pat pauses, when his voice catches in a particular way on something, though, and it must be pretty bad because Pat leaves off entirely and comes around to crouch in front of his face.

He doesn’t lift his own head, he makes Pat do that for him

(not by gripping his hair, this time, just gentle hands on his chin)

and lets Pat inspect his wet cheeks thoughtfully.

“There it is.” Pat’s voice is soft.

Brian sucks in a breath or two, a bit snotty

(which he hates, but fuck)

and says nothing, and just revels in Pat’s careful, solemn gaze.

“I’m wearing you out, aren’t I, babe.”

Brian shakes his head stubbornly.

“You’re such a good boy. You want to take it, don’t you. More. Whatever I give you. ”

“Yes,” Brian gasps, because if there are more tears to give, he wants to give them to this man. “Please.”

Pat brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do, then. No arguing. I’m going to pick you up and take you to bed.”

“I can—”

“Shhhh,” Pat hushes, cutting off the pathetic little plea. “Bri. I know you can take more. I know. You did good, baby. I’m done making you sorry, though. I’m gonna give you something else. Make you feel so good for me.”

“Thank you,” Brian sobs, and lets Pat push him up. His toes hurt, and his hips do too, from being shoved against the edge of the sofa, and he sways for a moment until Pat pulls him into his arms. He lets himself be half-walked, half-carried to the bed, whimpering a little with every step. Pat doesn’t scold him for crying, though, just lays him out on the bed limp and sweaty and arranges his limbs and unhooks the garter things and pulls down his stockings and yanks off the panties and pets Brian’s dick gently, letting it drip onto the fabric of the little skirt, obscenely,

“You look so good for me,” Pat praises, running his hands across Brian’s heated skin with reverent gentleness. “I want to fuck you, baby boy. Can daddy do that? Will you let me?”

Brian bites his lip and nods. Jesus, it’s going to—

“It’s gonna feel so good, baby,” Pat smiles, promises. “Let me get you ready. You can touch yourself, okay?”

He doesn’t have to be told twice, and he rakes a hand across his balls while Pat gets the lube, teases a little shiver out of his own cock by thumbing the tip, swirling precum around it and then wrapping his sweaty hand around the length and just holding it.

Pat’s pushing his knees up, then, finding space to probe with a lubed finger.

“Do you know good you look?” Pat coos at him, as he gasps at the cold. “All tired out and touching yourself?”

Brian can’t see it, but he can see Pat’s face as he pushes the toy right up against his entrance, just holds it there, reminding him that it’s coming. He knows that he’s red and snotty and his clothes are askew and he generally looks fucked up, but he also knows from Pat’s expression that he looks good, exhausted and messy and still hungry for more.

“Please,” he begs, and Pat pushes in the tapered end a little bit, easing the stretch gently, and there’s plenty of lube and Brian isn’t made of glass so he whines impatiently, “ _more_.”

“Always rushing. Isn’t that what got you in trouble in the first place?”

Brian bites his lip and doesn’t answer that, partially because he doesn’t know what to answer, partially because the toy is getting wider now, and Pat is fucking it back and forth with careful slowness that makes him liable to cry out.

Once the thing has gone all the way in

(and all the way out, and all the way in a few times for good measure)

Pat leaves it there for a second and pulls Brian’s hands away from his dick. “Okay baby, that’s enough.”

“But—”

He hates how whiny his voice is, but he’s aching and horny and lost the ability to really think of how to make other voices. Pat doesn’t seem to mind, though, just chuckling. “Trust me, honey. You’ll want to come when I’m inside you, that’s what you like. Be patient, okay?”

“Okay,” Brian moves his hands up near his head, so he’s not so tempted, lets them rest on the pillows.

“Good boy.”

Pat works the toy around a little bit more for good measure, examining how Brian squirms and moans, and then seems to decide they’re ready. The toy feels better going out than coming in, and Pat’s dick feels  _way_  better, hot and hard and slick with lube, easing in and out gentle and slow.

He has to grab the pillow to stop his hands from heading down to palm his dick—Pat’s finding a spot, there—pushing Brian’s knees up further so he can really take what he wants. Brian lets his legs be guided to Pat’s shoulders, his ass pulling up off the bed a bit as Pat bottoms out, slowly, deep inside him.

The press of the hips against his tortured ass yanks a little yelp out of him, and Pat starts to move.

It’s slow at first—it feels good—but he can’t use his hands to tug his dick because they’re busy cramming a fist into his mouth and holding it there, stifling the little whimpers of pain and pleasure and pathetic delight.

Pat’s just staring at him, eyes lidded, observing Brian’s face, the way his body jerks and twists, his hard and leaking dick. He attends to the latter, grasping it firmly just as he jerks his hips up, so the tap against his ass and the pressure are synced up and the jolt of pain drags out of his body an undignified  _mmmmph!_ sound.

“So good, being quiet for me,” Pat praises, even though Brian is manifestly  _not_ , he’s snorting and moaning and whimpering with greater volume every passing second. “What do you need to finish, sweetie? Do you need me to stop—” Brian shakes his head furiously, and Pat laughs “Okay, okay. Do you want more?”

Brian nods, even though his little cries are hitching on into tears, every time—

_fuck_  it feels good though, when Pat yanks his dick hard and pushes in—

“You’re a real glutton for punishment,” Pat says affectionately, swirling around the tip. “Letting me dress you up and fuck you black and blue. I want you to cum on yourself, okay? Use your hands. Even if you get a little noisy. I just want to see you lose it. Can you do that for me?”

He pulls his fingers away from his face and moves them down, obediently grabbing his own dick. Pat sits up to enjoy the view and starts driving in again, hard and rhythmic. And even if every thrust makes Brian grunt and whimper and yelp a little bit, Pat doesn’t scold him, doesn’t stop him from squeezing his dick tight and pulling hard with a fierce grip, forcing an orgasm out of himself as quick and rough and messy as he possibly can.

He comes all over his own belly, moaning, which absolutely wrecks his cute little outfit. He goes limp almost immediately, and Pat pulls out gently, cooing, “That was f-fucking beautiful—you’re—so good for me—” and guiding his hitched-up knees gently back down to the bed.

Brian knows Pat needs to finish, too, but he can’t muster the strength to move. Pat pulls off the condom, leans up. He’s got his dick in his fist, but he’s also checking Brian over, murmuring—“You’re okay?”

“More than,” Brian sighs happily.

Pat lets himself stroke, fuck his fist, gives a little grunt of pleasure. “You look so fucking  _hot_ , Brian.”

He’s got that hungry, filthy, predatory look that is almost as unguarded as Brian’s loose post-coital thoughts.

“Come on me, daddy,” Brian manages, because he knows Pat loves his filthy little mouth, especially when he’s worked up like this. He wants Brian to say naughty things real sweet, and look up at him batting his eyelashes innocently, covered in come and bruises. “I love it, when you dress me up—when you make me wear something slutty for you—when you make me beg—was I good?”

Pat chokes in agreement.

“I took your cock—I was a good little whore, wasn’t I? Please—”

It’s the begging that does it, he thinks, that pushes Pat over the edge and makes him spurt all over Brian’s chest. Brian privately cherishes it, every time he gets to see Pat’s face so open, flushed, dark hair stringy with sweat, moaning in anguished pleasure because of something absolutely wicked that Brian is saying.

They collapse together, and even though Brian’s a real mess, it’s a long time before anyone moves.

* * *

 

Pat cleans him up very gently, and helps him get his clothes off, and rolls him on his side, and Brian’s grateful that he doesn’t have to move much because every time he does he groans.

“Oh my god, Pat Gill,” he whines. “I’m not gonna be sitting down for days.”

“Now, whose fault is that,” Pat mumbles, blushing, as he unhooks the little pink bra and pulls it off.

“Definitely mine,” Brian groans. “So so mine. I was literally asking for it. But fuck, Pat, you’re  _amazing_. I didn’t know I could ask you to do that.”

“You can ask me to do anything, Bri,” Pat says softly, as he puts down the washcloth. “I might need a little help, but I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re like a sexy genius,” Brian closes his eyes and hums. “I dunno if the hitting is, like, good for you? but I really love it. So thank you for doing that for me.”

“I like it.” Pat is pulling boxers onto Brian’s legs, like he’s a child getting dressed while half-asleep. “You do interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” Brian cracks an eye, so he can see Pat blushing. “Um. You play innocent. Then after a bit you lose that and you get horny and start mouthing off. And then—well—I’m a sick fuck, but I like wiping that look off your face.”

Brian’s hands reach out, he lets himself touch Pat’s face, gently. “Patrick. You’re not a sick fuck. You’re hot as hell. The whole reason that look  _exists_  is so you can wipe it off my face. I really deserve it.”

Pat sighs. “I feel absolutely evil, the things I want to do to you.”

“Does that mean you liked the crying?” Brian asks brightly, and he grins when Pat blushes and pushes back his hair guiltily. “Oh thank  _god_. I was worried—I wouldn’t be able to stop that on a dime, you know. It’s intense. Usually I have a lil more control.”

“I didn’t think I would like it,” Pat admits. “But yknow. Here we are.”

“We are,” Brian echos and cuddles into Pat’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:   
> \- sex: anal sex, is there a technical word for coming-on-a-person-but-not-their-face?  
> \- BDSM: S&M, punishment, strapping (w/a belt), crying, public and private humiliation   
> \- kink: Daddy kink, praise kink, genderfucking, forced feminization (but a lil more enlightened? a smidge)  
> \- language: lots of daddy/baby boy, lil bit of slut-shaming stuff


	10. - mend --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat keeps it together, most of the time. that's why he has simone: to break it apart. 
> 
> brian can understand that.
> 
> _if only the clockwork could speak / i wouldn't be so alone / we burn every magnet and spring / and spiral into the unknown_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT A SEXY CHAPTER. skip if you hate trauma.

“Patrick.”

Simone’s voice is  _very_  suggestive for a work day, to Pat’s mind, so he doesn’t dare look up, just raises an eyebrow.

“Simone?”

“I need you for a second,” she says primly, and walks straight out of the room.

He sighs.  _Fuck_. He’s right in the middle of—

but goddammit, if he keeps her waiting, it’s not going to go good for him. He gets up, grumbling, and makes his way into the hall.

He’s a little worried she’s going to touch him, when he sees her glare—

but she doesn’t, just says, “Stop blowing me off. You’re coming over to my place.  _Tonight_. Capiche?”

“Sorry,” he shrugs, vaguely, and he  _is_  sorry, because a part of him really wants to—really needs to, in fact—but there’s more important things. “Can’t. Been a little over-scheduled, lately. I’ll make it up to you. Got a whole ‘nother pile of raw footage to get to, before tomorrow—”

“Wrong,” Simone says, shortly, crossing her arms. “Brian already did it for you.”

“God dammit,” he scowls, because  _of_   _course_  Brian’s already done his job, faster and better than he could have done it.  _Of course_  Brian is watching him get stressed and behind, and sneaking in and picking up his slack. Of course. “He’s always fucking pulling that shit—”

“Yeah, what a little asshole, trying to help you when you’re behind. Are you gonna yell at him in front of the whole office again? Or was making him hide for three hours yesterday enough.”

Pat feels his cheeks get hot. He  _had_  snapped at Brian, yesterday, because—

 _fuck_ , he was such an asshole—

he’d forgotten a meeting, forgotten it  _completely_ , and when he realized fucking forty-five minutes after it ended and gone racing into Tara’s office to apologize for being an inconsiderate fuck she’d just shrugged and said, “Oh it’s fine, Brian told us you were caught up with something. I think he took notes for you,” and dismissed him perfunctorily so she could go deal with people who weren’t perpetually stumbling in at 10am and missing shit that was on the goddamn google calendar.

He’d just been embarrassed, he supposes, when Brian bounced over sunny and cheerful to drop off notes, smiling like he’d utterly  _loved_  wasting time papering over Pat’s fuck-ups in addition to his own work.

“Just come get me if I’m late for a meeting, Brian,” he said, probably sharper than he meant to, upon reflection. “You don’t need to make excuses for me.”

“I—sorry,” Brian stuttered. “You looked busy—I just thought I’d help—”

“Yeah, well. I’ll let you know if I want you to do my fucking job, kid. Don’t you have better shit to do?”

He’d felt awful, when it came out like that—

he remembered someone, maybe Allegra, looking up sharply in disapproval—

but his cheeks were already hot and he has a temper and it’s hard for him to  _chill out_  when he’s keyed up like that. Brian knows this. A year ago, maybe, the kid would have, like, flinched and Pat would have felt really just the worst—

but these days, Brian’s more tolerant of his numerous faults—

and he just shrugged and nodded and said, “Okay, Pat. I’m gonna go get caught up on Unraveled for Monday, then,” and wandered off.

Simone’s staring at him expectantly, as he runs a hand through his hair, and realizes he was spacing out. She taps her foot. “You need to come over, Patrick. If you don’t work out some of this energy you’re really going to lose it on someone. Probably Brian.”

He rests his head against the wall. She’s fucking right. Jesus. Why can’t he just fucking handle his feelings like a grown-ass adult. “Okay,” he acquiesces. “But not until eight.”

“Fine,” she says, and her voice has a little edge of steel. “Be on time. I’m not pulling any punches, either. So get ready.”

It’s sick, how that—which is  _indubitably_  a threat that she will make good on—makes him nervous and energized and relieved and afraid all at once. Normally he would probably just nod, or say  _yes’m_ , or maybe at least have the decency to look contrite.

But maybe it’s cause he’s tired, or he’s grumpy—

or he’s been hanging out with Brian too much—

“Whatever,” he scoffs, with the slightest hint of an eye roll, and walks away.

He is  _definitely_  going to live to regret that, but he does grin a bit as he saunters back to his desk, so maybe he’s beginning to understand why Brian does it.

* * *

 

When he shows up at Simone’s door, he’s feeling a little looser and calmer—looking forward to it, actually, in that stubborn way he kind of likes—but the smile on his face slides off when he hears voices in her apartment as he goes to knock.

Is she—was she fucking with him or—or—

There’s a laugh that’s unmistakably Brian’s, and his heart skips a beat. Fuck.  _Fuck_.

He leans a forearm on the door and takes a shaky breath. He’d promised Brian that someday— _someday_ —he’d let him watch, what Simone and Pat do together. Not the fucking. This isn’t about fucking. This is—something else.

They only do it sometimes. Not very often. Only when Pat’s life is a real dumpster fire and he needs someone with a mean smile and no sympathy to turn it all out onto the floor.

He trusts Brian, it’s not that, he just doesn’t know if he trusts  _himself_ —

he could probably text her and say he can’t make it. Or even that he’s not comfortable, with Brian there, and she’d be nice about that—

or mean about that, if he wants—

and she wouldn’t make Brian feel shitty, and there’d be no problem at all.

But that is the coward’s way out, Pat knows. He’d  _said_  he was coming, and here he is, and all he has to do is swallow his stupid pride and let—

it’s not like  _Brian_  ever has any problem, letting him see—

but Pat’s not like Brian, who’s fast and funny and so easy with sharing all the deep, adorable emotions in his little heart.

The emotions in Pat’s heart are  _not_  adorable.

But to be fair, Brian probably knows that already—Brian’s already perfectly willing to let Pat claw ugly marks into his sweet delicate collarbones and fuck his throat until his gorgeous singing voice gets raspy and whisper threats in his ear so foul that his always-moving body freezes in animalistic fear—because even though Brian loves the risk, a smart and primal part of his brain really does know that Pat is dangerous. That Pat could really hurt him. That Pat  _wants_  to.

Really, in comparison, watching Simone fuck with him should probably be less disgusting.

And really, he  _owes_  Brian—

and not just for his help this week—

he sighs, and knocks.

“Door’s open,” Simone hollers.

* * *

 

They’re sitting at her kitchen table, which is a high-top, chatting, but they break off when Pat walks him. Brian smiles at him, a little tentatively, but Simone just tilts her head.

“This isn’t an intervention, is it?” he grumbles, to break the tension.

Brian quirks his mouth to laugh, but Simone does not—

in fact, she steps off her chair and comes two steps toward him, fast and angry—

oh, it’s gonna be one of  _those_  nights—

and slaps him hard across the face.

It stings—

but it’s more embarrassing than painful

—and he wants to see Brian’s reaction but Simone is yanking his hair down hard to get him at eye level.

“What the  _fuck_  kind of manners is that?” she grinds out through her teeth. “I invite Brian over to a nice little scene, and  _this_  is how you walk in here?”

His eyes flit to Brian, for a second, who is watching very closely, but with a very straight face. He can’t look away long, though, and his eyes are quickly back. “Sorry. Ma’am.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

That’s not a question, so he doesn’t say anything to it, just tries to hold her gaze.

“This isn’t just about you pissing me off,” she starts, and she’s got that lecturey tone, like he’s an unruly child who’s on her last nerve. “I’m not going to have you embarrassing me. So if you can’t fucking keep it under control, tell me right now, and I’ll send Brian home with an apology and take it out of your ass later.”

There’s a pause, a quiet in the room, at the offer. Pat really does appreciate it. Simone is too kind to him, really. But he’s already decided.

“He can stay,” Pat answers softly.

She spits right in his face—

Brian shifts, maybe a touch surprised—

and she curls her fingers cruelly against his scalp.

“You’re forgetting your place, Patrick. You don’t tell me what  _can_  and  _can’t_  happen, not tonight. Your job is to say  _yes ma’am I’ll be good_  or  _no ma’am I’m going to cry like a little bitch and I’m too afraid to let Brian see me_ ”—

Brian’s intake of breath is  _more_  than a touch surprised—

but Pat tries not to look at him, and just says “Yes ma’am. I’ll be good.”

“I should fucking hope so,” she lets go. “Go get ready.”

He’s pulling his shirt over his head before he even gets to the bedroom.

* * *

 

Simone likes him to start on his knees. The height differential would ruin the dramatic effect, he assumes. And also make it hard for her to backhand him across the face quite so viciously.

She’s so  _good_ , when her knuckles whip across his cheek—

she aims right  _every time_ —

and a good thing, too, because then he spends a lot less time trying to convince people he lost an argument with a car door or whatever—

and ninety percent of the time, his timing is perfect, and the sound is satisfying and he lets his head jerk back and rebound from the blow and it’s all a good show, just like an excellent wrestling maneuver, making her smile wickedly with sting of impact and the pleasure of throwing his body around—

ten percent of the time, he fucks up, and tastes blood, but yknow. You can’t please all the people all the time.

Simone also likes him to be naked—

because she’s certainly going to be dressed—

and when he looks a little worse for the wear from slapping she likes to pause and come up behind him and pull him up by his hair and ask him—

well, all kinds of things—

lately it’s usually  _what would Brian think, if he could see you now_ —

but that’s pretty silly in this context—

so instead she just tells him he’s pathetic for getting so hard so fast, and if he drips precome on her floor, by god, he’s going to clean it up and she  _does not_  mean with his  _hands_.

He nods, although honestly he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do anything about that—

he’s usually better about it, it usually takes a while to even get close to hard—

but it’s surprisingly arousing, to have Brian watching him. The kid is just sitting, crosslegged, in chair in the corner right now—

Simone put him there like she was his mom running into the liquor store and  _gonna be just a second_ —

he’s neither dressed nor undressed, really, shirt’s open and sleeves are shucked up, and maybe from the hair he can guess Simone was recently kissing him, but he’s not like, so horny he’s stroking himself or anything—he’s just holding his feet and watching with an intensely controlled expression.

Brian is, in general, pretty expressive. He wonders what Simone threatened him with.

“Stop looking at him,” Simone barks, and puts her foot between Pat's shoulder blades, shoves warningly, hard enough that he falls but not hard enough that he can’t catch himself on his palms. “He’ll come in when I’m good and ready.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says contritely, and stays on all fours.

She circles. Simone is like a falcon, when she gets worked up.

“You’ve been a real piece of work this week,” she clucks. “Haven’t you.”

He gives a half-shrug, neither admitting nor denying. He’s not great at open-ended questions.

“What’s your fucking  _problem_ , Patrick? Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“Always, ma’am,” he confesses, because Brian probably deserves to know that.

“Ugh,” she grunts. “You are a real pain in the ass, you know that? Wasting people’s fucking time, making them tell you things you already know. Making them guess how you’re  _feeling_. I don’t have the goddamn patience to list all the reasons you deserve this.”

He hears a jingle. Ah, so they’re starting then—

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, as she lets him have it, belting him across the shoulder—

that surprised him, the location—

she says “Oh, you’re really going to get me angry, if you can’t keep quiet,” and he shuts up while she hits a few more times. The sensation is fun—especially when she really gets a little space to crack it—it’s stingy and bright, and he likes it well enough, he supposes, but the thing that really sells it is the patter she keeps up, even while exerting so much energy.

“I’m not surprised you’re behind on your work—

you’re like a stubborn child—

you’re too goddamn  _proud_  to ask for help—

and when someone comes along to give it to you, you treat them—

you treat them like  _shit_ , like you’re better than them—

are you even  _listening_?”

He sucks in a breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is barely doing anything. I think I need to switch to something nastier,” she pinches his skin hard, near his shoulder-blade, where it’s burning. He thinks he probably has hit Brian much harder, which makes him feel guilty for flinching and hissing at her touch.

She picks up on that wince, maybe, or maybe she just knows him.

“ _God_ , you’re such a baby. I’m barely even hitting you and you’re already scared. Look at your boy over there,” she pulls up his head with a hand under his chin, makes him. “He can take a hit with a big mean belt. Do you really want him to think you’re weak? Have a fucking sense of shame, if you don’t have anything else.”

Pat says nothing, because that’s just usually what he does. He does watch Brian bite his lip, a little nervously.

“If you can’t take this like a  _man_ ,” she hisses, “I’ll hit  _him_  instead, how about that? Is that what you want? Something else he can  _take off your plate_?”

He has to fight her hand to turn his gaze away—

she lets him, blessedly—

because his stomach roils with nausea whenever she  _hits_  on something like that—

and he desperately needs her to exorcise this from him, even if he can’t bear to see that expression on Brian’s face while she does.

“No, ma’am. No.”

“So you’ll stop shaking then?”

“Yes’m.”

“Good. I’m gonna go find something a little meaner. You sit tight.”

* * *

 

Pat returns to sitting on his knees, waiting for her, but he keeps his head down, lets his hair fall in front of his face. It’s too hard to look at Brian, right now.

There’s maybe four seconds of labored breathing, before Brian can’t stand it anymore.

“…Pat?”

“Yeah?”

“Am I…is it…bad…for me to be here?”

“Neutral,” Pat says, evenly. “She’s pretty much the same, whether you’re here or not.”

“…but is it…bad…for you?”

He says nothing.

“…Pat? Should I leave?”

He can’t—he can’t say—oh, for fuck’s sake—

“Pat?”

“I dunno what you should do,” he snorts. “You better ask her.”

Brian is quiet at this, and starts to stand. To leave, presumably. Pat’s chest tightens. It’s so fucking  _hard_ , to say the shit that’s in his fucking mind, but when he’s really got his back forced up against the wall, he’ll do it.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says, quietly. Brian stops. “But you don’t have to stay. Of course.”

It’s only a moment, and then Brian is sitting back down, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

A beat.

“Pat?”

“Yeah?”

“Should I stay quiet?”

Pat looks up at that, to see Brian’s face looking very very earnest and a little afraid. “No. She’s been gone so long she definitely expects you to talk to me.”

“Oh. She doesn’t usually…?”

“She’ll leave me alone with my thoughts, yeah. But you’re here, so.” He smiles. “She knows you.”

Brian gives a little dip of the chin, bashful. “Not all of us can be stoic, okay.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll get something out of me for you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Brian breathes. “She’s scary.”

Pat laughs. “I don’t actually think she’ll—actually no—I take that back, if you stay, there is  _definitely_  a chance that she’ll hit you.”

“I’m not scared of that,” Brian shakes his head.

It amuses Pat, to see Brian so nervous, just like it always does.

He amends. “I mean, well, actually, okay, I  _am_ scared of that, but mostly I’m just scared of making noises she doesn’t approve of.” He scrunches up his face. “It’s very hard to be quiet.”

“Out with it, kid. What’d she threaten you with.”

Brian blinks at him. “I dunno if I’m allowed to tell you. But I really really  _really_  don’t want it to happen.”

Pat gives a lopsided grin. “Well, bad news. Usually if Simone shows a gun in the first act it’s gonna fire sooner or later. Probably multiple times.”

“Oh dear,” Brian colors.

“Indeed,” Pat coughs, as Simone comes back in.

* * *

 

“ _Someone’s_  a chatty cathy today,” she says scathingly, as she sweeps in with something long and thin and a few other things that Pat can’t see, dumps them on the bed immediately. “That’s a change.”

“Apologies, ma’am,” Pat offers contritely, watching Brian’s face as he looks at the bed, for clues about what might be in store for the evening.

“You,” she turns and brandishes a long cane at Brian, which makes both of them flinch. “Stop cheating. You better get on the floor, if you can’t keep your face still.”

Brian hits the floor so fast that Pat winces, at the crack of his knees, even though they’re only hitting carpet.

“Take it easy on him, Simone. You’re scaring him.”

“So now you’re the only one who’s allowed to scare him,” Simone scoffs. “He’s a big boy, Pat. He can speak for himself. Are you all right, Brian?”

“Yes’m!” Brian squeaks.

“See?” she turns, cocks an eyebrow at Pat. He doesn’t like the look of that eyebrow. “He’s not scared of me. He  _trusts_  me. Don’t you, Brian?”

Brian is staring very hard at Simone now, watching her like a mouse freezes watching a snake, but he’s also picked up on the right cadence very quickly and so he answers right away, nice and calm, “Yes, ma’am. I trust you.”

“See? Not afraid one bit.” She pauses. “You look skeptical, Patrick. Shall I prove it?”

Pat closes his eyes for a beat. Oh  _dear_.

“Hold out your hand, baby boy.”

Brian does it immediately, although his hand is trembling rather badly.

“ _Simone_.”

“Yes, Patrick?” she drawls innocently, stalking close to Brian.

“You don’t need to prove—”

He breaks off because she moves suddenly, but she’s just pulling the palm into hers, grabbing the wrist firmly in one hand, massaging it gently with the fingertips of the other. The cane is tucked under her arm, at the moment.

“Brian. Darling. Which hand do you write with. Because that’s the one mama wants.”

He shivers, but answers. “The other one, ma’am.” And reaches it out.

“Good boy. Come over here and stretch it out for me, on the bed.”

Brian is so  _sweet_ , how he looks terrified, but crawls up immediately anyway. He shivers as she plays with his hair. It hurts Pat’s heart, to think about the kid getting hurt, because of him—

which  _yes_ , does twist some black shreds of irony loose, thanks very much.

He breathes out. “Please. Simone. Can I convince you—”

“Hmmm.” She strokes a finger lightly down Brian’s palm, addresses him. “Funny, how much he hates to see you get hurt, all of a sudden. Guess that’s only for  _him_  to do.”

It burns, that.

“He j-just worries about me.” Brian’s eyes flick to Pat, and back again. “But you can hurt me. If you want.”

“But what do  _you_  want? What are you thinking, baby boy.”

“I’m wondering if I’m allowed to yell, ma’am,” Brian confesses easily. “Because I’ve never had my hand caned, and it might hurt a lot, and I don’t want to get Pat in trouble for me yelling.”

“Let’s say you wouldn’t get Pat in trouble,” Simone pets him. “What do you want?”

Brian thinks about it, for a second. “I’d like a stroke, I think. I want to know what it feels like. I won’t be as afraid if I know how just how hard you’re hitting.”

“See how easy it is for him, Patrick?” Simone says scathingly. “How unbelievably  _simple_  it is, just to tell someone  _exactly what you want_?”

Pat sighs—

because, of course, she’s right—

and Brian really makes it look easy, even if the look he shoots at Pat is far more guilty than triumphant.

“Okay, baby. One stroke, nice and smart, so you can get a feel for my arm. You want to watch or no?”

“I’ll watch,” Brian says. She taps his hand a couple times, finding her spot on the meaty part of his palm, then draws back and strikes.

It’s swingy, and it cracks quite nice, and Brian yelps and pulls his hand back.

“Feel good?” she smiles.

“Wow,” Brian is flexing his hand. “Um. Yes and no?”

“You can have more whenever you want.” She ruffles his hair. “Or not. Your choice.”

She scowls as she turns back to Pat.

“But you—”

“I assume I don’t get a choice?” Pat asks, and Simone is a little surprised, he thinks, because he doesn’t usually talk a lot, and he  _certainly_  doesn’t say anything sassy. “Ma’am?”

“Be careful,” she growls, but he actually thinks she’s a little pleased.

* * *

 

Brian’s just sitting cross-legged on the floor, now, his hands in his lap.

Simone wants Pat’s arms out of the way, so she gets out a couple of her leather straps and makes him hold his forearms behind him, buckles them together tightly, and two around his upper arms for good measure. It’s quite secure, although honestly Pat’s never tried to get loose.

She tilts his chin up, looks at him, and he just looks back, dispassionately.

“I think I want your glasses on,” she hums, and goes back to the bed to look through her things. “Brian, will you take care of that?”

Brian hurries to oblige her. He slides them onto Pat’s face, brushes back his hair behind his ears. His touch is—

too delicate. It’s hard to keep his face neutral, when Brian’s so close.

“What do you think? Better with glasses?” Simone asks

“Yes’m,” Brian nods, his hand on Pat’s cheek. Then, quietly, to Pat. “You look so hot. I wish I looked half this good in leather.”

Pat blushes and shakes his head sharply, trying to say something along the lines of— _please, don’t do that._  He’s not used to—to that—to compliments—when he’s—

“Patrick,” Simone scolds. “That is  _rude_.”

Oh jesus christ.

“Do you have to be such an  _ass_ , when someone is trying to be nice to you?”

“No’m,” he answers quickly. He feels Brian’s fingers twitch.

“I was  _going_  to be gentle—”

Pat half-snorts at the lie—

“—and do this over the bed, but now I think I’ll put you over my desk and you can just deal with the bruises, you bony sonovabitch.”

Brian’s hand strokes his hair, apologetically.

* * *

 

The desk isn’t quite the right height. A little low. Either his hips are going to be so far from the desk that he’s leaning all his weight on his collarbones—

which  _hurts_ , truth be told—

or his legs are going to have to be spread so obscenely far that it really strains the limits of his physical flexibility.

She lets him sort of deal with that predicament for a while, until he chooses bruising up his collarbones. He wants to rest his cheek sideways on the surface—

not sure if he wants to look toward Brian or away from Brian, though—

but he’s a little worried that he’ll break his glasses, if the weight catches them unexpectedly. Still, he can’t handle the strain on his neck forever, of holding up his chin, so he turns and shoves his cheek down and looks toward where Brian is sitting and resolves not to move too much.

He wonders if Brian thinks it’s weird that Simone hasn’t touched him—

isn’t going to touch him, at least not for a while—

because he  _is_  hard, on and off, as they do this. And of course, whether or not Pat looks good in leather, Simone looks good in  _everything_ , and she’s surely flaunting it every second. Brian might be aroused, might not be. He wonders what Simone is going to do with that. With Pat, eventually she usually gets impatient and rides him until he comes—and that’s when she says the  _really_  mean shit—scolds him for being selfish and having no control and not giving a fuck that he’s come, she’s going to ride him until she gets off—and dear  _Lord_ , it fucking hurts, the sensitivity and the heat—the thing that was so exquisitely, beautifully good feeling before becomes pain.

Sometimes, that’s when he cries, when he’s softening inside of her and she’s yelling at him for it; sometimes that’s when he gets to the point of weeping and babbling and frantic apologies, when she pulls off and sidles herself beside him and tells him it’s okay, she forgives him.

He doesn’t think she’ll do that to Brian, probably.

* * *

 

“Ahem,” she’s standing near him, tapping her fingers on his ass. “Are you quite done down here.”

“Yes’m,” he says, although he’s only mostly steady.

“Good. Let’s get warmed up, then.”

Her warm-up strikes are what some people would end with, Pat thinks.

The first  _swish-CRACK_ —he thinks he’s going to be ready for it, but he’s not at  _all_ —the raw brutality of impact takes his breath away.

It doesn’t hurt so bad…until it does—like a bee sting, swelling and heating with a fearsome intensity that builds up to a crescendo  _far_  higher than he expected.

 _Fuck_ , it’s bad, way worse than the strap—

his stomach is tight with the fear that he’s going to make a fool of himself, break down, just from this. He closes his eyes because he can’t look at Brian while he figures this out.

“Breathe through it,” she instructs. “Do you need a pause?”

“No,” he says shortly, because that will certainly be worse.

“What do you need?” she asks, putting a hand on the small of his back. It’s not unusual, for her to say this, and sometimes he can bear to ask for water.

She strokes once, twice, and guesses.

“Do you need me to keep talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

He feels her fingers tap, getting back into her groove. It’s familiar, the way the nails dig in, and at least that’s something.

“You’re pathetic,” her fingers skirt along his skin. “I bet you can’t take even ten strokes without crying. A pretty poor show.”

He’s silent, while she lines up again, forces his breathing to obey his will.

_Swish-CRACK._

He tries to match up a breath with the impact, so he doesn’t make such a humiliating gasp. The initial sting is less shocking this time, so he can let it out slowly. It kind of works. The searing pain comes a bit later, when she’s stroking his ass threateningly, and the warmth works its way up his spine and pools at the base of his neck.

“It’s a shame you won’t be able to show these welts to anybody,” she murmurs. “When you’re fidgeting in meetings this week people will just assume you’re being an ass. Like usual.”

_Swish-CRACK._

The pain is getting—more he supposes—different—white-hot—

_Swish-CRACK._

“You’re not fucking listening to me, Patrick,” she snaps, and she’s right. “You fucking tire me out. You know how much effort it is to talk to you, while I do this? And try not to miss?” He re-centers on her voice, but she doesn’t give him much time before—

_Swish-CRACK._

“How can you expect people to do shit like this for you, every time you need to be reminded what you are?” The pain is getting so intense that his breathing goes jagged after each stroke lands. He fights to master it before the next one comes, but—

_Swish-CRACK._

—she tears a little moan out of him, and then snorts in disgust. “Told you you wouldn’t last. Literal  _children_  take their strokes better.”

_Swish-CRACK._

Her pace is speeding up—she’s really laying into him now—and forcing his breathing to not go wild and loose is a full-time job. “You’re such a pain slut. Does Brian know you don’t even get off on it?”

_Swish-CRACK_

_Breathe_. “I’m sure he knows now. He’s staring right at you, you know. Just seeing how hard you fucking flinch. Why can’t you open your eyes and fucking look at him.”

_Swish-CRACK._

_Breathe, Patrick_. “Are you afraid of what he’ll see in there? He can heard you whimpering. Why bother trying to hide it? He knows you’re afraid. He can see right through you. He already knows you’re a—”

_Swish-CRACK._

“—fucking  _freak_. What do you think he doesn’t know already? He knows you like to make people feel small. That when you fuck him it up it makes you feel like a  _big man_. That your cock gets hard when he cowers away from you.”

_Swish-CRACK._

“Does he know that this reminds you of your daddy’s belt?”

_Swish-CRACK._

_Swish-CRACK._

“At least I’m not too drunk to forget which side has the  _buckle_.”

_Swish-CRACK._

“Why do you have your eyes closed, pussy?”

_Swish-CRACK._

“Is it because you’re crying?”

_Swish-CRACK._

 

* * *

 

She finishes, at some point, Pat supposes. He’s not thinking about the pain anymore. He’s not thinking about Brian, or about Simone, or about—

anything, really—

the endorphins are engulfing him, and the burn on his ass could equally well be in his cheeks or his dick or the pit of his stomach or in the corners of his eyes—

he’s burning, a controlled burn, like they do to prevent forest fires, burning out all the fuel he’s had laying around for weeks.

Simone’s body presses against him—she unbuckles the straps. He hasn’t moved, even though his body is screaming for it. Her fingers pull the leather away, and he knows that the red marks will be there for a while.

She pets his hair, not gentle but not  _not_  gentle, and tells him to stay where he is for just a moment. He’s happy to oblige. He needs to, actually.

There’s blood in his mouth, he realizes, so probably he bit through his lip. Fuck.

Her hands are gentle—he does flinch, but that’s not unreasonable—when she touches his ass, rubbing some sort of cream into it that feels desperately nice, both because it’s a little cold and because it offers the promise that maybe it’ll do something for these welts.

She leans very close to him on the desk, hands him a handkerchief, and whispers in dropped tones. “Brian’s crying. Just so you know.”

Pat sighs and stands up, pulls a shaking hand across his face, wiping away snot and tears and also a spot of blood. There’s gonna be a lot of questions, he knows, but this is possibly the only time at all he is ready to deal with them, to face the music, to see if Brian really wants to deal with this messy sonofabitch he’s been letting fuck him for nearly a year.

“I think I’m done for now, yeah?” Simone asks, carefully, and Pat looks down at her and nods. They usually do fuck, but that’s more for her benefit than his, a reward for tolerating his intense neediness and working so hard to make him feel sane. “I’m gonna go smoke and try to chill out. Get me when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Simone,” he squeezes her arm, gently. “You put a lot of thought into this. As always.”

“I try,” she says with a shrug. “You’ll—” her voice hesitates a smidge, which is unlike her, but Pat knows that this shit he puts her through is a little too much, sometimes. “—tell him I don’t—I’m not—” She stops herself. “Sorry. I’m being stupid. You’ll explain?”

“I will, Simone,” Pat says reassuringly. “He’ll get it. He’s a smart kid.”

Simone tilts up her head and Pat smooths his mouth into hers. They kiss for a long time, but she’s so tender, trying not to prod his swelling lip with her soft tongue. Her body is beautiful, as always—light and delicate—she feels fragile, in his large hands, and he worries for the umpteenth time that he’s going to crack her one day, with this bullshit.

“Okay, okay,” she pulls away. “Sorry. You’re a good kisser. I’m going.”

She slides out of the room hastily, to go clean herself up and calm herself down so she can come back for the good parts later.

Pat turns to look for Brian.

* * *

 

Brian  _was_  crying, it’s clear, but he’s not crying anymore. He’s just on the bed, with his hands wrapped around his knees, staring over at Pat with a wet red face and big eyes and an expression that is, honestly, probably not that much different from Pat’s own.

“Hey, kiddo,” Pat says. “Can I hold you for a bit? Or vice versa. Whatever you want.”

“Yes,” Brian says quickly, and lies on his side; Pat climbs in and lets his naked body be pulled in to the kid's chest, lets him worm his arms around in a tight hug. The ache of his ass is sharp—other pains are dull in comparison—and it’s especially nice when Brian nuzzles into his hair.

“You’ve got questions.”

“I don’t have to ask.” Brian squeezes him. “I can just let it be.”

“Now’s the time,” Pat advises.

Brian pauses, probably deciding where to start. He picks a question that Pat doesn’t expect.

“How long did it take you two, to work up to that?”

“Uh, that was my first time with a cane, so…"

“Not that. I just mean the whole…dynamic. And  _fuck_. That’s a  _lot of strokes_  for a first session, Pat. And she barely even paused. You two really fucking trust each other.”

Pat shrugs.

“I’ve known Simone a long time. She’s my best friend. And she’s crazy intuitive, and fucking brave, and knows how to do shit right.”

“She knows you really well.”

“Yeah.”

“She…didn’t tell you I was coming, did she.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It's good. I would have flipped. But it was good, you being here. I broke down faster than usual. Which is good. Simone gets tired. She has her fun, but at some point she just pushes through.”

Brian pauses, to think of another question.

“Do you plan out the scene beforehand?”

“Nope,” Pat admits. “Not usually at all. This time I—I had a suggestion or two, but I just mentioned them, that’s it. She’s like you. She does all the work.”

“I don’t…think I could do that.” Brian’s voice is tentative, but oddly, not with disgust. Or horror. Or even fear. It’s more like he’s contemplating fitting into a costume that’s way too small. “I could hit you. Or yell at you. But I dunno if I could…um…”

“Say things like that?”

Brian pauses, and because Pat knows him quite well, he can almost feel the gears working in Brian’s head, figuring out how to say this in the right way.

“Yeah. I can be mean— _hey_!” Pat can feel the pout. “Don’t laugh at me. I can, I swear. I just have never…I wouldn’t know what to say…I think I’d have a hard time being so  _real_  about it…”

“Simone keeps it a hundred,” Pat says, which is the most that he can admit, about that.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe he can—

it’s a push, but Simone  _asked_  him to explain—

and he owes her at least that.

“For the record, I know that she doesn’t believe the things she says.”

“Oh,” Brian nods easily. “Of course. I know that it’s an act.”

“Kind of.” Pat closes his eyes, and tries to talk about something that he’s never spoken to another human soul about, even the one who’s doing it with him. “It’s cathartic. When she hits on things in my brain. I don’t really think—”

he hesitates, because that’s  _kind of_  true—

there are at least some parts of Pat, that know the things she says aren’t exactly his beliefs—

that know she’s just drawing inspiration from his fucked-up thoughts—

but if those thoughts are  _his_ , then why does he—

Brian breaks into his hesitation. “I understand, Pat. Acting is kinda like that, you know. You kinda find the truth in yourself and push it out. Try living it a bit. Play out the story, even if it hurts, and just see where it takes you. And maybe that’s all we’re all doing, anyway. Trying out being someone and seeing if that is the someone that we like.  _Seeking that bubble reputation, even in the cannon’s mouth_ , and all that.”

Pat pauses.

“Are you quoting  _Shakespeare_  at my daddy issues, Brian Gilbert?”

Brian giggles. “Um. Maybe?”

Pat groans. “Well, fuck me. Sounds like you’re back to normal. Let’s get Simone back in here—she’s out there thinking you’ll never speak to her again—she forgot that it’s damn near  _impossible_  to scare off a theater freak.”

“Hah!” Brian laughs, a little silvery laugh. “Don’t talk to me about freaky, Pat Gill. The next one I’ve got for you is  _way_  freakier.”

Pat feels relief pool in his belly. “Oh, good. What—”

“I can’t even share it yet,” Brian says quickly. “It’s total gobbledegook. But it’s gonna be crazy and stupid. And involve togas. So just—don’t laugh at me, okay. We all have our kinks.”

Patrick smiles. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: A lot of things. This chapter includes  
> \- Simone/Pat and Simone/Pat/Brian relationship focus,  
> \- anger, self-loathing, and negative self-talk in an intimate third-person-limited perspective,  
> \- sadomasochistic violence, including slapping, strapping, and caning,  
> \- bondage,  
> \- mentions of painful sex,  
> \- crying,  
> \- emotional manipulation,  
> \- gendered slurs,  
> \- blood and bruising,  
> \- trauma and triggers (for the characters therein), including mentions of child abuse,  
> \- offscreen consent negotiation that is so extensive and important that i actually wrote it all out and cut it for length, (see comments on this chapter for bonus content ?)  
> \- a bdsm scene that is not explicitly about, and does not contain, sexual intercourse of any kind. 
> 
> also it's just kind of an emotion bomb. sorry??? next one's cute.


	11. - deus -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian traverses boundaries between worlds. pat's coming (hah) too.
> 
> _my holding you close is really no crime / ask the birds and the trees and Old Father Time / it's just to help the mercury climb / la-de-da de-la-de-dum, 'tis autumn ___

When Pat opens his eyes, the sun is shining through his blinds just _so_ , just like it does every morning, oddly beautiful and natural despite the ugly traffic noise down below. Every morning, the contrast kind of gets him, how the sunrise is the same in the city as back home.

But every morning, he doesn’t wake up to find someone watching him sleep.

The boy is sitting, perched on the dresser, one leg hanging down easily. His chest is bare, and faintly glowing, even—but a band of striking gold cuts across it on one side, looping under his arm and ending in a winged shoulderplate with shining scales.

This is definitely a dream, then.

Maybe he fell asleep while Brian was lecturing him about mythological allusions in Castlevania, and that’s why this strange creature with Brian’s face is staring down at him from on high.

He hops down effortlessly, silently, in leather sandals. Pat stares.

He’s _barely_ dressed in anything at all—a slip of white around his hips, the suggestion of a cape on one shoulder, a circlet of leaves just peeking out of his shining curls. A thin gold chain sits loosely around his waist, gathers on one side to meet at a gold ring pressed delicately up to his hip, then the ends trail down a line of skin, ending mid-thigh in a pair of red jewels.

Pat knows he’s staring, but _fuck._

“Um. Who…what…how…did you get in here?”

The youth tilts his head, as if the question is dull. He’s holding something in his left hand—a short staff, maybe—about as long as his arm, also gold, wrapped in leather bands.

Patrick swallows, because clearly that was insufficient, and tries again.

“I mean. Um. Hi. I’m Pat. This is my bedroom. Who are you?”

“Mmm. Mortals love names.”

That’s a crazy fucking thing to hear someone say, but he _believes_ it, when it comes out of the mouth of this ethereal creature that’s standing in his stupid messy bedroom and staring at him with otherwordly serenity.

He feels nuts, sitting here half-naked—

and _yes,_ the boy is also half-naked, but Pat is sitting against the wall shirtless and hairy and pale and bruised and hiding his lower half under a scrunched-up blanket and definitely looking like a confused and messy human—

so he just thinks _fuck it_ and plays along.

“Yeah, we’re crazy about ‘em. What can I call you?”

His eyes sparkle with humor. “My oldest name is _Trismegistus_.”

“A mouthful.”

“It means _thrice-great_. You could try _Idris, the infallible prophet_. Or _Theyt_ , _the silver-tongued._ Or _Camillus, the protector of souls._ ”

Look, okay, Pat did fine in history class, but it’s been literal decades, so he’s going to need more of a hint than that.

“…um, what kind of souls?”

“Oh you know,” the boy shrugs easily. “Merchants. Shepherds. Gamblers and liars and thieves.”

“Which one am I?”

He laughs, a floating, beautiful sound. “Maybe none. But don’t worry. Those are just my favorites. I come to all men, eventually—I am the messenger of the sleeping and guide of the dead.”

Well, _shit._

“Maybe I don’t want to know,” he mutters.

The boy laughs, again, then holds out his hand. “Come.”

A bright wellspring of anxiety sparks up in Patrick’s heart, even as his arm twitches, wants to jump to obey. “Can’t I, uh, face the afterlife with a shirt on?”

The look he gets is a bit mocking. The hand beckons.

He doesn’t know where this boy is going to lead him. Off a cliff, most like. “Do I have a choice?”

The god frowns, draws back, a little sadly. “Of course. You can go on your own, if you prefer to wander—I only guide the willing.”

Pat hesitates. It’s not that he’s not _willing_ —

the _spirit_ is willing—

it’s the _flesh_ —

he shifts, uncomfortably scrunching blankets to better hide his morning erection.

The boy laughs and claps in delight.

“Look, okay,” Pat grumbles. “Laugh all you want, but I know how you Greeks are. Last thing I need is to show up in Hades with a boner.”

“Charon _is_ a dirty old fellow,” grins the godlet with Brian’s face. “Might be best to take care of that before we go, mortal.”

It’s not an insult, exactly, but it does make Pat blush.

The boy folds himself instantly to the floor, sitting cross-legged, propping his head on the bulb of his golden stick thing innocently and just looking up at him expectantly.

“You’re going to _watch_?”

“I’ve seen it all before,” the boy-god drawls boredly. “You think you’ll be the first in this century, even? ”

“Woof,” Pat winces, “way to add insult to injury.”

Still, if he’s only gonna get to jerk off one more time on this mortal coil, he can think of worse ways to do it than with a smirking, brilliant, handsome-as-fuck god peering up at him.

He takes a breath and shoves the blanket aside—

_tries_ not to watch the sparkle in Brian’s eye—

and palms himself, hard and steady, to start stroking.

The godling quirks an eyebrow. “In such a rush? There’s naught but time, after.”

_—it’s weird, how Brian’s ever-so-slight shift in cadence makes Pat’s heart flutter—it’s not like he’s flirting, exactly—I mean, he is, but that’s not why Pat gets a thrill, he doesn’t think—he’s just so different, sitting there, smiling up warmly at Pat with otherworldly calm and wise, old eyes in a young, sleek body—speaking in a voice that is like his and yet not like his—warmer and darker and more knowing—and yet still full of mischief and light—how Brian loses himself in everything he does—it’s easy to believe that he has mystical powers—that he’s spent a million mortal lifetimes seducing poor fools like him—that he’s used to reaching out his hand and getting exactly what he wants—_

Pat shakes himself back. The smarmy little fuck is right. If it’s the last time, he might as well make it count. “Sorry. Though you were, like, the god of fast things, or whatever.”

“Oh, so you _do_ know who I am!”

The little face is bright with delight. Gods _would_ be a bit vain, now, wouldn’t they? Anyone would be, with all the worship.

The boy is rising, then, as easily as he went down, and stepping—one, two light steps—up close—

for all that shifting, and hints of tantalizing thigh, Pat can’t see anything more indelicate—

fucking Gods and their perfect fucking costuming—

and then he puts his hand just over Pat’s—

hovering—

so close that Pat can feel the warmth radiating from this perfect creature before him.

He doesn’t, touch, though—

thought Pat’s _aching_ for it—

and he realizes he’s going to have to ask.

“Only the willing, huh?”

“That’s right,” he breathes.

Pat presses his hips up, just a modicum, just enough to feel the brush of Brian’s palm. “Please?”

The boy laughs again, and runs a finger up his length. “I don’t, usually. It’s frowned upon.”

Pat tries to laugh, but with the desperate desire for hand brushing up against cloth brushing up against him, he makes a more choked sound. “Who’m I gonna tell?”

The youth withdraws his hand, but brings it up to stroke Pat’s hair out of his face, caress his cheek, look hard into his eyes. It makes Pat feel so— _human_ —hyper-aware that his hair is dark and stringy and his face is covered in a grungy beard and he’s not quite clean or showered or dressed or tidy and maybe never quite is. At least not up to these standards.

The beautiful face frowns, a finger touches his lips, seems to decide something. “You _are_ a pretty one. I might have to indulge myself.”

_Aw hell yeah score one for Patrick_ the road to hell is paved with hot god-fucking.

 

* * *

 

 

In sex, as in life, it turns out that mortals request and gods command.

“Can I touch you?” his voice comes out hasty—

but the body in front of him draws back, coolly, says nothing, as if he hasn’t heard the question at all. It’s just standing back, propping delicate hips against the edge of Pat’s desk, humming pleasantly and reaching down below—

_“You_ want to touch _me_ …?” the boy says, slowly, archly, incredulously. 

Of _course_ he’s not wearing anything under that—toga? it’s not a toga, though, it’s just like a little cotton wrap, _barely_ there, _barely_ hiding his cock from Pat’s hungry gaze.

He slides to the floor, to his knees. It feels right. “Please?”

The god with the face of Brian strokes himself a few times. He’s thinking. Pat feels his body tremble with desperate, anxious need. If he’s not permitting to touch this gorgeous, languorous, warm, delicious figure in front of him—

Pat _needs_ to touch—touch is his anchor—if he’s not permitted to feel the taut skin beneath his fingers—to lick up that bare, smooth, beautiful chest—it will barely have been real—

“Few men would be quite so bold as to touch a god.”

_God—_

_the kid’s good._ Pat’s never felt so unworthy. And yet. He _desires_.

“Please,” he says, reaching out a plaintive hand. “You’re so _beautiful._ ”

He throws his curls back, pleased, at the praise, stroking a bit harder now.

Pat takes his heart in his throat, and dares. “Please. I want to _worship_ you.”

The boy god laughs his little tinkling laugh and nods. “Very well. You may.”

Pat doesn’t have to be told twice. In an instant, his hands are on hot smooth skin, gripping the delicate hips, his tongue is roving hungrily up to lap at a pink nipple.

The youth yields easily below him—not cowering but arching magnificently as his soft hands are replaced by Pat’s clumsy ones—and lets out a lovely sound, like a sigh.

He should really be patient—lick more, suck more sounds out of the creature in front of him—

after all, if it’s the last time, it should really be good—

but he can only delay a few moments before he finds himself nosing at the place where the two legs meet.

His pink cock is dripping and so very warm, Pat kisses it affectionately, on the tip, so softly that it’s almost just his breath which makes the body above him shudder. He continues to kiss, up the underside, letting his hair and his scratchy face and his other earthly imperfections just ghost along the soft, velvety skin. He’s trying to be slow, reverent, but his mouth is watering to feel it—the heat and wet and hardness—and his prayers are answered.

“Open,” Brian instructs. “Stick out your tongue.”                   

Pat does so, and hums in sinful pleasure when he’s rewarded with the length filling his mouth. He doesn’t suck, or lick, or do anything he’s not been told to, just waits for a long moment with Brian’s hands curling in his hair and the weight of Brian’s cock on his tongue.

He pushes forward. Pat tries to be open, warm, pliant, to make his mouth relax.

The urge to suck, to lick, is too much though, and as he begins to move his jaw, the warm weight draws back, pulls out.

Pat looks up, stricken. It hurts, to be denied, not knowing what he’s done wrong. But the gods are fickle—

“Lie on the bed,” he demands. “Let’s do this properly.”

Pat moves as if his feet have wings.

 

* * *

  

It’s divine—and obscene—to see Brian’s body stretched out above him, with his thighs on either side of Pat’s head and Pat’s own wretched, gangly limbs obscured from his view by smooth, perfect skin.

The weight of Brian’s cock on his lips is so much more _insistent_ like this, the effort to stretch his throat wide and warm and wet is harder, messier, but so much more rewarding, and Brian’s face looking down at him, expression solemn and judging, is so _intense._

Also, with how his arms are pinned, Pat can just barely reach his own dick, which is good too.

It hurts, how Brian shoves in and out gently but deep, forcing Pat’s jaw open wider with one lazy finger, fucking his throat with slow rhythm. His eyes water as he takes it, gulping saliva-struggling breaths whenever the fickle godling pauses a moment to play with his filthy hair.

Then, the hips just _stop_ , buried to the hilt in his throat, and the youth above him hums in satisfied pleasure as he chokes—

helpless, fighting the sensation of panic, of his throat clenching, unable to breathe—

jerking himself _furiously_ until stars prick at the edges of his vision—

and then he lifts a treacherous hand and scratches at a sandal-clad calf so that the boy-god relents.

After this, the youth pulls out, rests his dripping cock on Pat’s face, watching him curiously as he gasps for air hard and returns to Earth.

“I forget how fragile you are,” the god murmurs. “Apologies.”

Pat blinks until he can focus again and rasps. “Fine. Brea—breathing is overrated. I want more.”

A hand strokes at his cheeks, wiping away the tears.

“Humans always want the things that are worst for them,” he sighs. “It’s a pity.”

His throat is _wrecked,_ tomorrow is going to be a terrible strain, but he wants—

“Take that up with my maker. Please— _please_ —again—”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Brian intones solemnly, but his eyes do sparkle, a bit.

 

* * *

 

When Pat finally comes, with red morning light burning through his eyelids and Brian softening in his mouth, he kind of thinks maybe he _has_ died. And maybe that’s okay.

He shoves himself half up, because the god has already alighted, moved away, and he feels the loss like a hole in his heart. But ah well. If he has to go, at least it wasn’t gently.

“So I guess that’s it,” Pat says, limply, from his slouched posture on the bed. “Off to hell, then?”

The strange youth flicks a look at him, mischievous.

“I never said that, Pat Gill, now, did I? That you were _dying_? Can’t a bored deity just bring you a message, sometimes?”

Pat groans.

“A fucking trickster god—I should have known.”

The lithe body, pauses for a second, on his windowsill, looks back, smirking. “See you someday, Patrick,” the boy smiles, and clambers out on the fire escape, and is gone, as quick as a dream.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“For fuck’s sake Brian get back in here you maniac you’re gonna break your fuckin’ neck!”_

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

When they’re safely back in bed, Pat can’t stop laughing, and crushing kisses onto Brian’s face, which looks so deliciously _shy_ all of a sudden, blushing with embarrassment and nerves.

“You are the weirdest creature ever born or made,” Pat says, dragging Brian’s hips toward himself in an embrace among his wrinkled sheets. The shoulder thing has been discarded—too bulky—and the stick—

_caduceus_ _,_ apparently—

is god-knows-where, but he still has that bright string of gold around his hip and thin fabric just hiding his dick and Pat finds it indescribably, bizarrely, _idolatrously_ sexy.

“I know,” Brian moans. “It’s humiliating. I was still a closeted teen when Thor came out, okay.”

“I’m not complaining. You’re sexy no matter what form you choose to be embodied in.”

“Jerk.” Brian pecks him on the cheek, indignantly chaste.

“I’m the jerk?”

“You’re _teasing_ me,” Brian pouts.

“I’m not the one who put ‘snarky gallows humor’ on the call sheet for this role, okay.”

“Oh my god stop it,” Brian claws at him. “You’re the worst. The worst. I’m never going to trust you with my ridiculous ones again. It’s _too_ embarrassing.”

“Hey, hey, don’t say that, Bri,” Pat catches his wrist. “I love your crazy ones. Please don’t stop. Your mind is—well, fucking _incredible_ —I didn’t laugh during it, did I? I was good.”

Brian quirks a suspicious eyebrow. “You were. But did you _like_ it?”

“Uh, obviously. Have you been working out? I dunno where you found this costume but for the love of God _don’t_ return it—”

“No, no,” Brian puts a hand on his chest, and looks up at him earnestly. “I mean, thank you, but. Not that. Did you like the whole”—he waves his hand— “scene, or was it too weird?” He interrupts himself. “It was too weird, wasn’t it. I’m always like—too goofy and also too serious—people don’t want to like—wear stupid costumes— _and_ explore their own mortality— _and_ get throat-fucked, also—”

“You’re perfect,” Pat says simply. “I want to do everything with you.” He grins. “Plus, I get to learn something, and I don’t even have to read wikipedia.”

Brian relaxes a touch, because if nothing else, the boy is confident in his skills at research. “What’d you learn this time?” He’s smiling, but his tone is still so shy, almost quavering, desperate for some kind of sign that Pat doesn’t just think he’s ridiculous.

Pat pauses. Thinks

Certainly, a few things about mythological vocabulary—

and a few things about Brian’s weird little mind—

and _quite_ a lot about the limits of his physical anatomy—

but maybe he can just be a sappy romantic, just this once, just since Brian’s been so fucking vulnerable and beautiful and _sexy_ for him today.

“Honestly? That if you’re the last person I get to fuck before I die, I’ll go willingly.”

Surprise and joy light Brian’s eyes like the rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:   
> \- sex: oral sex, face-sitting, rough sex  
> \- kink: breathplay  
> \- trigger warnings: discussion of death, the afterlife, and blasphemy


	12. - chat -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian goes on vacation. he makes pat promise to call. then he makes pat do some other stuff. 
> 
> _we may lose and we may win / though we will never be here again / open up, I'm climbin' in / so take it easy_

“You’re gonna skype me every night while I’m gone, right?”

The hand on Pat’s wrist surprises him, as does the question. They’re doing work stuff in Brian’s kitchen—trying to finish up so Brian can actually relax on his time off—and not spend time checking messages and trying to help from afar. 

“Sure,” he says, although he doesn’t think—

Brian probably won’t _actually_ want to see his face on a tiny screen every day. They’re a _thing,_ yeah, and yeah they definitely see each other all the time, but that’s work and sleeping and sex and food and all the other stuff they do. Brian’s gonna be out having fun adventures and seeing the world, and he’s not gonna need a nightly peek back into Pat’s ratty little bedroom.

The hand doesn’t let go of him, though.

It pulls his wrist away from the keyboard, turns it palm-up. Pat lets him, without resistance.

“What're you thinking, Bri?”

The fingers that trail up to his elbow make him shiver. _Oh._ Maybe Brian’s thinking they’ve done enough work for the evening…

“I think I wanna try something. Something different. If you’re okay with it. While I’m gone. You’ll skype me every night?”

“Of course,” Pat says. “Whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

Pat’s not unused to being on a camera.

He’s been streaming for over a year now. Not just at work, either. Mostly just sitting in his messy bedroom, petting his cat and making weird miserable faces with a variety of scraggly beards, letting the internet make fun of him and yell at him and send him funny, sweet messages.

He’s gotten used to not being polished—

he tries to own clothes that look decent, but he doesn’t like _dress_ _up_ for streams—

it’s so unpredictable what people will like, anyway. Sometimes a flannel. Sometimes just some black logo tee. Sometimes they want to see his skinny arms, and other times they go crazy over a sweater that honestly, his mom bought for him.

He knows his brand—fucking with his hair for the fiftieth time. Letting Charles rub his furry little face on the mike. Occasionally saying shit that gets him, rightly, in trouble.

Skyping Brian in the evenings isn’t _so_ different, he supposes. Firstly, because it’s often right after he’s done streaming anyway. Second, I mean, he's right in the same room, same background, same camera setup and all. Thirdly, though Pat's awkward and strange to look at, Brian—like the public—seems to like looking at him anyway.

 

* * *

  

The first night, they’re just chatting casually, Brian talking about his day and his flight and Pat letting him, just listening, chiming in when he feels like it. Conversation is easy, like it is in real life, more or less, but it’s harder to catch the little shimmer in Brian’s eyes that marks whatever transitions there are from feeling to feeling in the kid’s beautiful little brain.

So it surprises him, when—

“You look _good_ with your arms up over your head like that, Pat Gill.”

Pat doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just says “Thanks.”

Brian’s on a tangent about local birds, one of which he’s trying to remember the name of—he thinks it’s a tarsier, but Pat doesn’t think that’s right, he thinks that’s a monkey—and Pat goes to google it, and he _is_ right, it _is_ a monkey—so he says so, and the conversation goes on, but—

“Put your hands back up there, Patrick.”

He blinks. The tone—

scolding and sleepy and happy and dark—

is surprising, as is the request. But he does it.

The conversation after that point is colored by a little beat of something against the front of Pat’s chest. Arousal, maybe, or anxiety, or just curiosity about what Brian’s getting out of this. They’re just chatting, though, mostly about goofy stuff, and not for very many minutes more. Pat’s arms barely get tired at all.

“I’m gonna go to sleep,” Brian yawns. “Thanks for calling me and schooling me about primates.”

“No problem,” Pat says, and brushes his hair back from his eyes, and lets his shoulders relax. “Thanks for giving me a workout, I guess.”

It’s hard to tell, because webcams aren’t made for subtlety, but he _thinks_ that before Brian disappears off the call, he winks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next evening, it’s quite late, when Brian texts—because Pat’s been streaming late into the night—and then Brian calls and launches off into Grand Canyon stories without hardly so much as a _howdyoudo how’s that shitty snowy weather_.

Pat grins at the kid’s enthusiasm. He’s never met someone who gets so _excited_ about beautiful things, and who turns that excitement into such weird stuff. Brian’s apparently composing a song about Arizona—that he wants to be about the state but also the tea—and it’s gonna be the same forwards as backwards—? It’s a flurry of ideas, but then—

“You should take off your jacket,” Brian instructs. “I want to see more of you.”

Again, Pat obeys pretty much without hesitation, though he doesn’t really think the shitty graphic tee under his hoodie is going to present a tantalizing view.

“I see this is gonna be a habit, huh,” he says with a half-smile, letting the feeling touch his sternum again. It’s light. Just a little finger of pleased anxiety.

“Yup,” Brian says, looking through the camera at him. “You look good today.”

“I’m a mess,” Pat contradicts. “I haven’t shaved since Sunday. If I don’t clean it up by tomorrow Simone’s going to start calling me a feral mountain man.”

“Don’t listen to her. It suits you. You look sexy.” Brian says.

The pleased, anxious press, again.

He asks Brian what his plans are for tomorrow, and the kid talks about it with excitement—he’s not going to be scared on the skywalk, he insists—and although he’s terrified of helicopters, he might just be willing to try it, just this once, just to see up close.

“Take your shirt off, Patrick.”

Again, the order comes right in the middle of something else, and again he feels it at that same spot, warm, tingly, in his chest.

“Uh—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Brian scolds, and his voice is warning. “It’s midnight. I’m tired. Don’t keep me up.”

Pat doesn’t point out that on the east coast it’s 3am—

if anything, Brian is the one keeping _Pat_ up with his helicopter anxieties—

just shucks off his shirt and tosses it carelessly on the bed, because the feeling is getting stronger, and he’s very interested in where that is going to go. Brian always takes him somewhere, with these wild ideas of his.

“There we go. Now scoot back a bit. I need to see you.”

He doesn’t know how far Brian wants him, but he tries. “Better?”

“Yes,” Brian nods. “Good.”

They keep talking, but it’s hard for Pat to concentrate. He’s got goosebumps, and Brian’s looking at him funny. It would probably be too intense, in person, for him to keep eye contact, but on the webcam it’s not so bad. Brian’s leaning back, too, and not talking as much, which is unusual.

He makes a weird couple of sounds, and moves—

 _oh_ —

Pat realizes where his hand is, and blushes a touch. My heavens.

“Sorry, Patrick,” Brian apologizes without sounding sorry in the least. “You’re just _too_ fucking hot. I’ll only be a minute.”

Pat runs a hand through his hair, nervously. He’s never been—I mean, _maybe_ people have jerked off while watching him before, but if they have he’s never heard about it, thank god. “Um. Okay. Do you want me to…do anything, or…?”

“That’d be great,” Brian says, so quickly that Pat feels like he’s been had. “Touch your nipples for me, will you?”

He _knows_ he’s blushing, then, and even though it’s just a camera and not Brian that he’s keeping eye contact with, he still dips his head bashfully. “I don’t, um—”

“Patrick,” Brian says, again with the warning tone. Like Pat is getting in the way of something he _wants_.

It’s embarrassing, dragging a hand up his chest, alone, in his bedroom. Brian would probably make a good show of it, if their roles were reversed. Pat usually tries not to think about what he looks like, on camera, because it’d be hard to stand doing it if he did.

“That’s the way,” Brian breathes, approving, as he makes a first, exploratory brush against his nipple, finds it a little hard, because, well, it’s cold. “More.”

It’s pretty typical, for Brian to ask for more.

It’s also pretty typical, for Pat not to know exactly what more should look like. He flicks his nipple a bit, raises the other hand, brushes the other. He doesn’t feel like it’s a great show. Brian perhaps agrees, because he decides to take a more explicit directorial role.

“Suck your fingers for me.”

“Jesus, Brian,” Pat says, involuntarily, because he probably wouldn’t have thought of that, it’s just so _Brian_ for his mind to jump right to—something so daring and flashy and filthy—

“Do it. C’mon. I just want to get off and go to bed.”

The impatience, the _pushing_ , helps unfreeze him, and he manages to get his fingers up to his lips. He doesn’t know exactly how to make it look good, but he _does_ put his index finger in his mouth, tastes himself, sweaty-palmed and a little grungy, while staring up expectantly for Brian’s next instruction.

“Fucking tease,” Brian grins, and it’s mischief and sin. “Pretending to be _shy._ Like you didn’t just spend two fucking hours on camera doing whatever chat told you. Letting them do what _they_ want with you.”

Pat colors, because although it’s not the same—

he certainly wouldn’t do _this_ for them—

he’s not entirely unaware of his tendency to indulge his followers. Or his followers’ seeming endless desire to torture him.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Brian says at his silence. “You fucking love it. Fuck your mouth for me, Patrick. Make it good.”

The shiver that shakes out of him is probably visible, even in piss-poor resolution.

He doesn’t know how to do this. How to make it look like—like anything—but he _tries_ , goddammit—

opening his mouth, swirling his tongue around the two fingers, licking and sucking.

“I can’t _hear_ you”

—and that’s just not _fair_ —how’s he supposed to—does Brian want him to moan?

—he settles for humming, albeit tentatively.

“That’s good,” Brian pants, breathily, and Pat can’t see _anything_ from him, other than a little splash of color high on his cheeks. “Fucking sexy. Keep doing that. Flick your nipples, also. Arch for me. Imagine you’ve got my cock in your throat. Take more.”

Pat closes his eyes—

it’s too much, even from this distance, to see that look on Brian’s face—

that demanding, urgent, bossy, worked-up look—

and slides his fingers further, in and out, fucking his own mouth obscenely as he arches back on his trashy plastic chair. He tries to imagine—

he _wishes_ Brian were here—

even though it’s late, and he’s exhausted, and frankly he’s already jerked off tonight—

because then he would be swirling his own spit around Brian’s dick, instead, and tasting his excitement, feeling the heat and weight and little movements that Brian makes when he’s trembling with lust and telling Pat he’s beautiful.

Brian keens at him, and Pat feels lewd and horny, and dares to drag his finger down deliberately and rub saliva into his hard nipples.

“That’s it, Patrick,” Brian grunts. “Mmm. I could watch you do this all night. You’d do it for me. I know you would. You’d stay right there and do every filthy thing I tell you, wouldn’t you? You can’t resist me.”

“Yes,” Pat admits, and if it sounds breathy, well that’s not really his fault.

“You’re so fucking easy,” Brian approves, with a smirk. “I can’t keep you up all night, though. You’ll be too tired for your _fans_ tomorrow. Let me just hear you moan a bit. While you fuck down your throat. You can do that for me, right?”

Pat can, and does. It feels wrong, tilting his head back, his fingers pressing, sliding up his tongue until he threatens to gag himself, but it _does_ make him moan.

“ _God_ , I want to fuck you,” Brian gasps.

It sounds like a good plan to Patrick, but he can’t say so.

Brian comes with a curse, and Pat watches him, but it doesn’t look like much—just a tight expression of pleasure and some motion that is mostly below the desk. Pat drops his hands—he feels sticky and doesn’t want to imagine how much a mess he looks—and his own fingers are unbuckling his pants, pulling—

“Don’t,” Brian says, as if scolding a naughty child, and Pat stops dead.

“I—”

“I’m too tired to get you off right now,” Brian’s taking his glasses off, rubbing a wrist against his eye. “I know you’re horny. But you’re going to have to wait.”

Pat tries to process this, but his brain feels slow. “I can just—you can go to bed—”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to miss it. Just call me tomorrow and we’ll finish.”

“I—”

“Night, Pat,” Brian says curtly, and the video cuts off.

_Oh for the love of—_

 

* * *

 

 

Pat’s not exactly horny all night, but it is _frustrating_ , getting ready for bed around an erection. Partially because he wants to address it, so he can fuckin get some sleep, and partially because every time he remembers its existence—

which is just every time he looks down, or it touches anything, or he thinks about Brian—

which is a lot, to be clear—

he thinks about Brian sleeping peacefully, 3000 miles away, curled up like a satisfied cat and dreaming of how else he can make Pat’s life miserable and sexy and crazy and perfect.

 

* * *

  

He hesitates, before he calls Brian, the next night. _What should I wear?_ he catches himself thinking—

which is a stupid thing to think, because pretty much all of his clothes are the same—

and also, if Brian doesn’t want him in whatever he chooses to wear, he’s sure he’ll get some direction about how to change it up.

The call rings four times, and he’s a little worried Brian’s not going to pick up at all—

maybe that’s the game, tease him and then let him dangle—

but then he sees Brian’s face. He’s adorable, bleary-eyed and shirtless, his tawny hair falling all over his face.

“Sorry. I was napping,” Brian yawns.

“I can leave you alone,” Pat says immediately, because although there’s nothing in the world he wants to do less right now, he shouldn’t be bugging the kid on his fucking vacation, as if he wants to spend his time off staring back at Pat’s stupid bedroom.

“No, no.” Brian smiles. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you called.”

Pat asks what he’s been up to, and Brian has a few new things—a drive-thru safari, and a diner with surprisingly good fried clams—

what a fucking maniac, ordering seafood at a diner in the middle of a desert—

but he’s not like yesterday. He's mostly kind of drowsy and giggly, and Pat feels like maybe this conversation won’t go where he expected it to. Which is fine. He’s not gonna force it. Brian loves fucking with him, but he also just loves talking and being silly and singing little snatches of a melody that he can’t remember the rest of, and Pat likes that too.

They talk a while—maybe ten minutes—and then Brian raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re really not gonna ask, huh?”

Pat blushes a little, because there’s no context—but he _assumes_ —but he shouldn’t assume—

“Are you being shy, or did you just jerk off without me?”

“I didn’t,” Pat says. His tone is, he knows, too revealing. Too quiet.

Brian is smiling. “I _knew_ you’d be good. I knew it.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Oh, it’s not because you’re not _wicked_ ,” Brian says archly. “You’ve got a filthy fucking mind, I know that. It’s just because you want to do it on camera for me.”

Pat’s hands are instantly sweating, and he knows he looks dumb, when he’s slack-jawed, but sometimes Brian just fucking _surprises_ him.

“I can’t jerk myself off right now, though, Patrick. I’ve got stuff to do.”

This seems like a preamble for something, so Pat hesitates to answer.

“Maybe I should make you wait another day. How would that treat you?”

“I—I—”

Pat’s stuttering—because it’s fucking _embarrassing_ —and it would be...he doesn’t know, really...what it would be like—

“You’d probably have to hide how excited you are at work all day, but I know you’re good at that. Lots of practice.”

It’s not even so much that that’s an _insult_ , it’s just Brian’s puckish expression, the sheer delight he’s taking in the idea of making Pat—uncomfortable—horny—frustrated—

“How hard would it be?”

“Uh…” Pat stumbles on the double-entendre, can’t answer before Brian cuts in.

“I’d like to know you were hard for me, all day. Rubbing up against your skinny jeans. Fixing yourself in the bathroom mirror. Lying in bed tonight, trying not to touch yourself, even though you want it so fucking bad. Can you do that for me?”

Pat closes his eyes. This kid is going to kill him one day. “Yeah.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll call me, and you’ll already be hard and leaking for me, and ready to show off a little? You’d do that for me, if I asked?”

 _Jesus._ “I—yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“You’re _such_ a degenerate,” Brian says, triumphantly, and Pat knows the sound of that grin, even though his own shaking hand is over his eyes. “I know you’re dying for it. But you’ll do whatever I ask. Whenever I ask.”

That’s the god’s honest truth.

“I’m gonna have fun with you tomorrow. See how far you’ll go just to get off. So remember to be good for me. Goodnight.”

Pat can’t bring himself to even say goodnight, he’s trembling so hard.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s not like Pat jerks off _every_ day—

—I mean, when he was single, he usually did, like anybody—

but it’s not a _problem_ , to not do it for a couple days. He isn’t 16 anymore, for fuck’s sake.

Although he feels a little bit like it, when he wakes up for the second day in a row with morning wood and moans in frustration that he has to lie there and think about taxes or something while it subsides enough so that he can pee.

The literal worst thing is that Brian texts him all day—

of course he does—

Brian fucking _loves_ to torture him—

and they’ve never really sexted before, but of course Brian jumps into it, like he jumps into everything, with such fucking enthusiasm and panache that it takes Pat’s breath away.

> **your cock hard, daddy?**

—he gets that at _nine-A-M_ —which is fucking _six_ on pacific time—

just in time for him to be on the subway, late to work, like always. He nearly buckles in paranoia that some pervert looking over his shoulder will see it and try to give him a secret pervert handshake.

He finds it easier to craft responses in text form

> **you’re a real piece of work, brian**

but soon learns that Brian is really, really dedicated to getting the last word in just about every exchange, and usually the last word makes his dick jump in embarrassment.

> **dont forget to wiggle that skinny ass on your way into work ;)**
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

The day goes by painstakingly slowly, and he _tries_ to avoid his phone, because fuck—

he needs to keep it together—

but then Brian pings on his work computer, just saying _check your phone, slut_ _—_

and the thought of getting filthy messages right at his desk is so terrifying that he immediately breaks down and pulls it out—

the phone, that is.

He’s missed a few messages.

> **i want a picture of you**
> 
> **not of your face.**
> 
> **i want some proof that you’ve been good.**
> 
> **patrick. don’t you dare ignore me.**
> 
> **you don’t want to know what happens.**

Pat’s fingers have a hard time finding the right place on the keyboard.

> **dick pics, brian? really?**

Brian’s response is acrid:

> **dont act like it’s the first time you’ve whored yourself out**
> 
> **at least this is just for me**
> 
> **if you’d rather get likes on insta, though,**
> 
> **im sure theyd take another neck-down selfie of you in tight jeans**

Ouch. Pat’s angry about how he hates that and angry about how he likes it, and angry at Brian for knowing exactly what buttons to push to give him an erection out of sheer, burning, personal shame. 

> **fuck you.**
> 
> **give me a minute.**

He slams his way into the bathroom, using his anger to wipe away any semblance of good judgment, letting the emotion stir him into action. He opens up his jeans—he’s hard, of course—and takes a blurry snap of his boxers

> **_happy?_ **
> 
> **no.**

Fucking goddamn cocksucking—Brian is the _worst_ —he’s annoyed, and he’s horny, and he takes himself out with one hand and takes a careless photo of his hard length with his hand in front of it giving the finger. 

> **such a naughty little prick**
> 
> **still. youre fucking beautiful, patrick.**
> 
> **so hard for me**
> 
> **so gorgeous**

God dammit. Killing with kindness is _worse_ , somehow, than the teasing, and Brian doesn't stop, because he  _never_ stops--

> **I know you cant wait to show off for me tonight**
> 
> **im getting pretty excited for it**
> 
> **wear a few layers**
> 
> **something tight**
> 
> **I want you to strip for me.**

Dear almighty lord in heaven above, this sinful child is going to be the death of Patrick Gill.

 

* * *

  

Pat makes it home, somehow. Yeah, he leaves early, okay. Yeah, and he was in late. Sometimes, that’s just how it’s gotta be.

He’s hard the instant he gets in the door, and tries to figure out how obedient to be about the layers. He doesn’t have the kinds of options that Brian does. He’s just got a tight wifebeater, a button-up shirt, and a jacket. Skinny jeans. That’s all the excitement his wardrobe can manage.

He realizes they haven’t set a specific time to call, so he just sets his volume on max and tries to clean the house without thinking too hard about whatever the fuck is coming next, and how embarrassing it’s going to be, and how much he’s definitely, definitely going to like it. How much he’s going to be putty in Brian’s hands. How far Brian wants to _push_ him, apparently, just to see that he can.

_Ring ring._

Pat breathes out. All right. Here we fuckin go.

“Hey, Pat.”

Brian’s a little further back from the screen than usual, so that Pat can get a nice look at him. He’s fucking _beautiful_ , of course. Leaning back in an office chair. He’s got a white linen shirt on, sleeves rucked up just past his elbows, and half the buttons undone so that Pat can see a triangle of chest. The loose fabric is tucked into a pair of tight red corduroys, looking as sharp down below as he is loose and flowing up above. His hair is a mess, but in that pleasant way like he’s been outside for a while, and he’s had a touch of sun. His skin is bright and his eyes are dark.

He knows Brian, and he knows that this casual gorgeousness was designed precisely for him.

“Fuck,” Pat says, immediately, because he’s not a man of letters. “You’re breathtaking.”

The kid’s pleased at that; his eyes light up. “It’s good to see you too.”

“ _God_ , I’m horny,” Pat admits, and he’s usually not so forward, but he can’t help it.

“I know,” Brian smiles. “My bad. Do you forgive me?”

“There is literally nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for, when you look like you do,” Pat says, earnestly, because when he’s really starting to come apart he gets pathetically romantic.

“You’re a charmer. I think you’re just buttering me up for your own purposes.”

“I am—Brian—I can’t _think_ that hard right now. I just want you to tell me to touch myself.”

“Good,” Brian’s face is _so_ hot and so fucking smug. “Get some clothes off, then.”

Pat doesn’t really know how to strip—he’s seen a peep show, sure, but bras and panties and corsets and stuff are very different than t-shirts and jeans—so he just steps back and tries to undress relatively slowly, without any particular flair.

The sweatshirt comes off first—it was a dumb idea, anyway—and he drops it unceremoniously. What should be next—shirt? pants?—he hesitates too long—

“You gotta shimmy a bit while you take your pants down,” Brian directs. “Look—turn around—there you go. Make it look like it really takes some work.”

“I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Pat blushes, although he tries.

“You are,” Brian says. “Now, turn around and unbutton that shirt—top to bottom, nice and slow. You can sit on the bed while you do it. Spread your legs wide, even.”

He does those things, and feels hot in the face but also in other places as the shirt opens up. He pauses before removing it, but Brian doesn’t say anything in particular, seems to be focused, so he just pulls it off and now is sitting on his bed in a wifebeater and boxers, trying hard not to touch himself before he’s allowed.

“There are so many things I could do to you,” Brian murmurs, and he’s stroking himself now, just reaching into his corduroys, otherwise unmoved, sprawled lazily back on the chair as before. “So many things I could make you do. To make you beg me.”

Pat bites his lip. He _knows_ he’s going to be begging, before the night is over, but he’s not quite ready yet. He needs more, before he can just stare at this stupid camera and moan in desperation for permission. So he just says, “Go for it.”

“I think I’ll need you to get a few things,” Brian says thoughtfully. “I _know_ you have them around. Probably right on hand. Get yourself some lube. A dildo—one you like, I don’t care which. Something you can suck on for me and pretend it’s my cock. I _wish_ I’d told you to buy nipple clamps.” Brian sighs. “You’d look so good with them. But we’ll have to make do. Maybe a sharpie, instead. I’ll think of something.”

The litany of supplies makes Pat’s hands grip the mattress, white-knuckled, in some hybrid of joy and terror that is increasingly a feature of his sexual fantasies. He knows if he tries to fight on something, Brian will just push harder, most likely, so he just chokes out, “Gimme a minute, then” and goes to find the instruments of his own destruction.

 

* * *

 

 

Once he’s laid everything out—Brian makes him tilt the camera, so he can see everything lined up on the bed—Pat can’t fit in frame up there, then, and has been relegated to his knees on the floor—he crosses his arms over his chest, nervous, and says. “All right, then.”

Brian laughs at him, the tinkling laugh he always does, when Pat is embarrassed and Brian is about to absolutely shatter him. “So cranky when you’re horny. Touch yourself for a quick sec, through your boxers. Cheer yourself up.”

Pat does so, and the feeling is so intensely relieving that he knows his sigh of longing is audible.

“Have you even _touched_ yourself, since I stopped you?” Brian says. “I know you haven’t come.”

“Not really,” Pat answers, in a strangled voice. It’s hard not to squeeze and thrust immediately, but he knows he’s just supposed to start light. Brian cares a lot about pacing.

“Afraid you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself?”

“S-something like that.”

“You need to trust yourself a bit more, Patrick. You have the self-control. You take direction like a high-class whore. I bet you could edge yourself for me. You could start right now, if I asked you to, start jerking yourself off, and then stop whenever I asked. _Whenever_ I ask. Couldn’t you?”

Pat bites his lip, because he knows that whether or not he says yes to this question, he’s gonna be doing it before the night is over.

“Couldn’t you, Patrick? Stop whenever I say so.”

“I hope so.” His voice is strangled

“I think you could,” Brian soothes. “Let’s see. Start stroking now. Just through your boxers. Not too hard. Make it look good for the camera. Make those faces you do—good—like you’re feeling so good it hurts. Oh, that’s fucking _hot,_ Pat, you on your knees, jerking off into your boxers. I can _see_ how bad you want it.”

Pat is holding back, because he knows what’s coming, but it’s so _hard_ not to let himself—

“Hands up!”

The order is sharp, and makes Pat jump, even though he’d been expecting it. Well, he’d been expecting a _request_ , in that soft, sexy, seductive voice Brian was using on him—not a barked command that makes his hands jump as if he’s already done something wrong.

“Put your hands on your head, Patrick. Like you know I like. I’m imagining my hands pinning them there, keeping you from touching yourself any more. From getting too excited.”

Pat obliges, resting his wrists just behind his head. He can’t help imagining the same thing, Brian’s fingers around his wrists. His dick would probably be pressed close to Pat’s face. He’d also probably be kicking Pat’s knees apart, cruelly trailing a toe up his inner thigh, trying to make him buck and moan.

“I can see you’re thinking about me touching you.” Brian says darkly. “You’re gonna get too hot too fast. You better take off your shirt. Nice and _slow_. Don’t you dare fucking _rush_. I want you to feel it dragging over your nipples for a solid _minute._ ”

It’s a guess, but Pat thinks he’s probably supposed to keep his arms up for this—to grab his wifebeater by the nape and just pull, gently, slowly upwards, exposing his skinny chest and hard, pink nipples for Brian to see. He tries to go plenty slow, even though it makes him feel hypersensitive—whenever he moves any faster than a snail’s pace, Brian tuts, and he mumbles a little stupid apology that makes Brian laugh.

“Good job. Your chest looks fucking good. Pinch those perky nipples. They’re hard for me.”

“It’s cold in here,” Pat says sulkily, because he’s lost all sense.

“Oh?” Brian smiles. “Shame you don’t have more clothes on. You’ll just have to tough it out. I bet sucking on a cock will distract you, don’t you think?”

Pat flinches, because he’s most afraid of that, of all, of shoving a dildo in and out of his mouth in front of Brian—he hasn’t done that in _person_ , let alone in his room _alone_ —with only a webcam. “I—I can’t—”

“I know, Patrick,” Brian coos. “You wish it were mine. You wish you could taste this—” he rubs his thumb against the tip of his dick, swirling, and then brings it to his lips, sticky with precome. “Mmm. I’m just thinking about your lips around me, your tongue tickling me. You’re so good at it. So soft, so wet. I _love_ when you let me come in your mouth, Pat. And then kissing you. I like tasting myself. See?”

He dabs at his dick again and sucks the precum from his fingers wantonly. _Fuck_ , Brian is so _shameless_. He just—fucking _does_ whatever he wants—and he’s dizzyingly, perfectly, impossibly sexy, whatever he does. He’s irresistible.

“You’ll suck on something for me? So I can imagine your mouth?” Brian whines sweetly, pushing himself forward, his hips tilting his dick up through the ring of his fingers. “So I can pretend you’re here?”

Pat’s not hesitating—not really—

because he knows he’s going to lose this one—

just like he lost the last one and he’ll lose the next one, again and again, until the end of time—

he’s just pausing to appreciate this—

this fiery little _incubus_ who’s haunting him—

who’s thousands of miles away and _owns_ his soul.

  

* * *

 

  

It’s not as bad as he imagined—it never is—

Brian lets him close his eyes—

 _thank god_ —

as he works the rubbery cock in and out of his mouth, dragging at first, but then growing slick with saliva. He tries not to think about what he looks like, which is actually kind of easy, because Brian lets him touch himself, at last, and says such fucking filthy things hot and close into the microphone that Pat almost forgets his body _exists_ , let alone is capable of embarrassment.

He tells Pat _everything_ about how his mouth feels on Brian’s cock—about what things Brian thinks about doing to him, when he’s far away and jerking off alone—about how _good_ Pat’s ass looks in jeans, how they’re even tighter when he’s hard at work and ignoring it—and what kinds of things he’d do to it, right on Pat’s desk, next time everyone has gone home for the night—

It’s so easy, actually—

to imagine this _is_ Brian’s dick, and that he’s pressing it, slow and steady, in and out of Pat’s willing throat—

that Pat’s sucking and pushing upward, begging for more, straining to stop from gasping and making Brian pull away—

that he’s humming and moaning and trying to drive a final shout of pleasure out of the body above him.

It’s—

a lot, and Pat has to stop touching himself before long—

because Pat has a lot of faults, but Simone has trained him well in one thing at least—

and he’s _not_ going to come without asking permission—

and right now his mouth is kinda busy.

Brian’s very worked up, he notices, when he cracks an eye to check in.

He’s not lounging prettily anymore, but leaning forward, fist tight around his own cock, not jerking but just holding. His face is flushed with heat and he’s concentrating on what he’s saying, so hard that his shoulders are tight with the effort of holding back his own urges to buck and hiss and lose his train of thought.

 _He works so hard for me,_ Pat thinks, affectionately.

“When I come, I want you to imagine—” Brian gasps, and his eyes are screwed closed for a moment in fevered concentration “—that you’re _hungry_ for it, that you’re desperate to taste me—that you’re trying to swallow it all—but that I pull out—and cum all over your face—”

“Mmm,” Pat hums, and sucks noisily, because Brian is _very_ close, and so beautiful, and it’s easy to do this for him, actually, to let him picture exactly what he wants, to help him along, to pull aside the spit-slicked toy, to say something in his roughest voice, the one that sounds like he’s mid-fuck—“ _please_ Brian—come in my throat—fuck my mouth—I want to taste you—”

Brian gives a little shout of strangled joy, and Pat lets himself feel a warm surge of pride as he fucks hard into his hand and comes all over his adorable pants, makes a fucking mess that was _definitely_ not intentional, and his lithe body jerks with the spasms of his orgasm.

It’s wonderful. Every time.

It’s also wonderful to watch him come back to earth, to float back in a haze of sweet, fuzzy, lusty, red-cheeked confusion. His eyes always find Pat first, and alight with joy like Brian’s surprised he’s there, like Brian's just died and gone to heaven and found that the first person to meet him is the very person he was wishing for.

“Have fun, baby boy?” Pat grins, voice still rough and slippery, and Brian groans in pleasant embarrassment

“I’m so sorry,” he blushes. “I wasn’t supposed to come _first_.”

“It’s good,” Pat says huskily. “It was hot.”

“I’m the _worst._ I made you wait. Oh my god I’m the worst.”

Pat chuckles. “I can wait. One of the benefits of age. More patience.”

Oh, don’t get him wrong, Pat’s still achingly hard and dying to touch himself, but the shy sorry look on Brian’s face, the way his hands and pants and hair and everything are in total disarray, is absolutely worth any amount of suffering.

Brian brushes his hand across his face swiftly, then scowls at the sticky sensation. “God. I’m a mess. I definitely don’t deserve to clean myself up until you’re done, though. What do you want? Fuck. I’ll do _anything._ ”

“Careful with saying things like that. What if I ask you to come again?”

He groans and makes a face that Pat loves, the anguished calculation of whether he can actually do something crazy. “ _Please_ don’t, I’ll die. I could do it, but I’ll actually die.”

Pat laughs. “Kids these days.”

“Oh my god please tell me what you want. Even if it’s _that_. You've got to let me make it up to you.”

“All right. Two things. Easy.”

Brian nods eagerly and looks at him with full attention.

“First, I want you stark fucking naked and sucking your cum off your own fingers.”

“Ooh, kinky,” Brian says with enthusiasm, and he’s already stripping. “ _And_ continues the motif. I like it.”

“Second, I want to know why you made me get a fucking Sharpie. Where was that going?”

Brian laughs, as he’s shaking off his boxers and positioning himself so his naked body fills the frame properly, bright and messy and beautiful. “Oh. Sorry. That was gonna be revenge. I was gonna make you write on your chest, like you did on me. And then not wash it off until I get back.”

The thought makes Pat’s dick twitch hard—or maybe it’s how Brian follows up the statement by rubbing his softening dick and then licking up his palm sluttily.

“Ah. Maybe better that you didn’t get there, then. I dunno if I can write _David Hyde Pierce_ upside down, to be honest.”

Brian pulls out his fingers and grins innocently. “We could always pick something easier?”  
  
Pat groans, because he knows, whatever it is—

“—what about CAM WHORE?”

—that he's going to be back here tomorrow, probably with nipple clamps—and Brian will be fucking with him until he runs out of vacation days—and whatever happens is going to make Pat feel that anxious pressure above his heart, that rush of fierce joy, like always. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:   
> \- sex: orgasm delay/denial, sexting, webcam sex, masturbation  
> \- BDSM: D/s dynamics, insults, humiliation  
> \- kink: sex toys, (private) exhibitionism  
> \- language: insults, slut-shaming


	13. (don't tell your sister)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian gets back home. pat's happy to see him.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _oh whose sheets you twist? / or whose face you kiss? / oh whose house are you haunting tonight?_

 

> **ill pick you up from the airport.**

Brian grins, because he knows he’s in trouble.

 

* * *

 

 

Brian stands on the curb with his suitcase, for a few long minutes. He’s jetlagged. The flight back east is always a bitch (because of the time change). His body is pulling for an afternoon nap but it’s nearly seven and he shouldn’t sleep right away (because his sleep schedule will get off

(not _unreasonably_ off, just off from Pat’s, who’s a night owl))

so he got some coffee

(not _plane_ coffee, plane coffee freaks him out, he got airport-terminal coffee)

and now he’s just jetlagged and jittery with energy and waiting for Pat to drive up. He’s also, maybe, a little jittery about what Pat’s face is going to look like, when he does. Is he going to look fake-stern or fake-angry

(or…actually angry?)

or any of the other, subtler non-fake emotions Pat gets around Brian, which are harder to distinguish but mostly seem to equate to positive reviews.

Pat’s smiling when the car stops and he gets out to help with the luggage and kisses Brian hello right in public, which still gives Brian a little thrill of excitement, even though he’s been out for years, because _Pat_ hasn’t. He gets in the passenger seat of his own car, hesitates, then puts his hand on Pat’s knee.

He’s always a little strangely shy when he’s been away from Pat for any time at all

(because he’s quite rarely away from Pat for any time at all)

as if he needs permission to put things back to where they were, some confirmation that Pat hasn’t been replaced by an alien look-alike that is trying to take over the world, or possess his humanoid body, or maybe just an alien that likes Brian slightly less than the Pat whom he left.

Pat’s normal, though, serene and humming as he drives. They’re going to Brian’s place, he realizes,

(which is fine)

which makes more sense, actually, he’s got his suitcases and shit, and his car

(he’d just assumed that

(it sounds stupid when he thinks it)

Pat would want him to himself).

He doesn’t say anything, though, just lets Pat pull up and park and help him get his suitcase up the narrow stairs and he’s grateful, because he can totally do it himself, but he _is_ tired, and maybe it’s fine to just sleep tonight. Pat’s probably just trying to be sweet and let him rest

(right? he’s not—)

“Hey, Jonah,” Pat nods, on the way in with Brian’s suitcase.

“Patrick,” Jonah waves from his spot on the couch, where he’s lounging with a book and a cocktail. “Brian! How was your trip?”

Brian follows Pat in and says hi to Jonah and hugs Laura (she’s in the kitchen baking something (but it doesn’t look like it’s going well (based on her frustrated grimace at the candy thermometer) so he leaves her be)).

“Drink?” Jonah tilts his head to ask Pat

(which is his way of asking if Pat is sleeping over)

“Sure,” Pat says easily, finding a place on the couch. “What’s the house special?”

“I can do whiskey-and-ginger or I can do gin-and-tonic,” Jonah grins. “Look, Laura’s the mixologist. If the name isn’t the full recipe then I’m at a loss.”

Pat nods favorably toward a whisky-ginger, and Jonah makes one for Brian, too, without asking.

They sit and chat for a while

(Laura comes over, after a minute, anguished about the failure of her maple candy

(the shattered failure is still tasty))

and everyone asks Brian about what he saw on his trip, and he says all kinds of things, especially to Jonah about all the weird songs that flitted through his head when he was looking out at different viewing points, and also to Laura about how great a road trip buddy mom was and totally willing to try everything except sushi. Still no sushi.

“You must be tired,” Laura says, but Brian shrugs because his body is weird and if he falls asleep at eight-thirty there’s no way he’ll sleep past three (and he and Pat will be dangerously close to no sleeping overlap at all, which sucks every time it happens).

“I _gotta_ stay up a little longer. Wanna play something?”

He says it to her but he’s really asking Pat, who’s looser and calmer around Laura and Jonah now but they’re still not _his_ friends and so he worries that maybe—

“Teach me one of your crazy board games,” Pat says at once, “But not a word game, for the love of Christ, my pride can’t handle it with you three.”

Brian feels such happy free excited little sparks that he forgets he was a touch disappointed about coming here tonight. Now he’s grinning like an idiot and squabbling about which one to pick (“It’s short!” “Brian, there are like, seventeen pages of instructions.” “This one?” “Laura slaps too hard.” “Not that—I bought that as a joke _._ ” “We’ve only ever won that once, and we were cheating.” “I lost some pieces.” “That game is basically just _math_.”) for literal minutes, and then they finally pick Jonah’s new German game with shittons of dice and frantic rolling and it’s noisy as hell and Pat loses, but not _that_ bad.

 

* * *

  

After they put away the pieces and tiles and cards and dice and CD soundtrack, Jonah yawns and says “Y’all get ready for bed first, all right? If you want the shower.”

“Thanks,” Brian says, because he really _does_ need a shower, after his flight. “I’ll be quick.”  

 

* * *

 

 

Brian and Pat go together—it’s just efficient, that way, there’s one bathroom for four people—but it makes him feel warm, that Pat is comfortable brushing his teeth and shaving and doing his various ablutions while Brian showers—warm just like the whisky makes him warm—or the intimate and easy way Pat’s hand found his shoulder when they were on the couch.

He’s scrubbing the grimy Newark airport smell off his arms when Pat rustles the curtain and steps into the shower with him. Brian startles

(they do shower together,

(but not very _often_ ,

(because they’re both full-grown tall-ass men who shower primarily in undersized New York apartments)))

and Pat just says “Pardon me,” politely and reaches for soap.

It’s a little acrobatic, getting around each other and both getting clean without anyone falling

(at some point you have to change who’s under the shower-head, and that’s always a scramble

(Brian finds he keeps ending up pressed against the cold tile while Pat slides carefully behind him))

but it’s nice, as always, to watch Pat doing things that no one else gets to see him do

(even if it’s just washing his hair).

He washes Brian’s hair, too, actually. Insists. Catches Brian’s wrist when he reaches for shampoo.

They’re not speaking much

(because the walls of the bathroom are pretty thin, Brian reckons

(and although Laura and Jonah of course know it seems like it’d be rude))

but he can ask Brian without words and Brian can shrug _okay_ without words and Pat can scratch all ten of his soapy fingers into Brian’s scalp in a way that, wordlessly, makes him sigh with happiness. 

Pat tips back his head to wash out his hair, using a hand to shield his eyes from soap like he’s a little kid. Brian feels small, in a lovely way, while Pat carefully rubs in conditioner

(Pat’s a big believer in conditioner (Brian’s hair is crazy no matter what he does))

and wraps his arms around him, pressing him close.

“I missed you, pet” Pat says, finally, while he’s holding Brian and stroking a slick hand down his chest.

“Me too.” Brian’s voice is hushed and a little desperate. He’s tired and jittery and happy from drinking and playing and winning and laughing and being washed and being called _pet_ in that sultry murmur

(and also from Pat’s hand trailing _just above_ his dick oh myyyyy)

that means that Pat has wicked plans for him tonight, after all.

The hand teases across his nipples and—

“ _Ah!”_

the sound is _most_ indiscreet, when he realizes Laura’s got some kind of fancy tea-tree conditioner that tingles—

“Shhh,” Pat hushes him, but doesn’t stop. “Be good, now. Quiet.”

It is _super tough_ to do that

(when Pat teases his nipples, slides a hand down between his legs, slowly brushes his dick

“You like that?” Pat murmurs. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“F-feels funny,” Brian whimpers. “Good.”)

it is _super tough_ to not gasp when Pat continues, achingly slowly, to palm more of his length, fondle his balls.

He reaches a hand back up to Brian’s hair, pulling a little,

(getting it slick again)

then presses a finger along the crack of Brian’s ass, probes just ever-so-slightly, just for a second

(it makes him suck in air with a moan that is _definitely_ not quiet enough)

and my _god_ it’s not a feeling he’s ever felt before in his life,

(this strange cool minty tingling that reminds him of every single nerve ending

(all the poor nerve endings that haven’t been touched by Patrick in over a week))

but it’s _definitely_ not a bad feeling, and he keens quietly _“more_ ”—

—he should know better by now—

Pat instantly pulls away, makes a little satisfied sound. He washes his hands off in the shower stream and is stepping out, dripping, before Brian realizes that, duh, the whimpering sound is him.

“Finish washing up, baby. Your towel’s over there.”

Pat slips out of the bathroom while he’s rinsing, and Brian curses

(but also grins, because was fucking _right_ , he _knew_ he was in trouble, he _knew it._ )

  

* * *

 

 

“If you’re gonna tease me you’re gonna have to gag me,”

Brian says in a dropped whisper the instant he slides into his bedroom, with only a towel around his hips, and runs directly (predictably) into Pat’s bare chest.

“And why’s that,” Pat whispers, as his hands gently press Brian back against the door.

“ ‘Cause Laura’s on the other side of the apartment, but Jonah’s bedroom is _right there_.”

“So?”

“Last time he heard anything he wrote a _song_ about it and sang it at me for a _week_.”

“I knew I liked that kid,” Pat grins into Brian’s hair. “Ever since he nearly decked me.”

(Jonah knew about Brian’s _proclivities_

(they’d been college roommates, for chrissakes)

but he hadn’t known Pat, those few months ago,

(and Pat could be pretty evasive in his answers, to be fair, when he was uncomfortable)

and some of the marks get a little _wild_ sometimes

(look, it’s an occupational hazard of this kind of thing

(sometimes your roommate’s just gonna walk in on you getting dressed and have _a lot of questions_ ))).

“He wouldn’t punch you.”

“Oh, he definitely, definitely would,” Pat disagrees. “That’s why I like him. You deserve protecting.”

Brian blushes at this, ‘cause he doesn’t need _protecting_ from Pat

(if anything, it’s the other way ‘round)

but it makes him feel nice anyway.

Pat’s pulling the towel away, then, and the air makes him gasp. The cold tingling isn’t gone—if anything, it’s _worse_ —so sharp and sensitive and extreme and _weird_ that it’s bordering on pain

(which, if you know anything about Brian

(and Pat does)

is kinda, like, a borderland he’d build a country cottage in and stay there for a while).

Pat kisses him quiet, lets his hands roam. It’s leisurely. Not particularly teasing—not forceful—not featherlight—not naughty—just a smooth drag of the fingertips like Brian’s body is a story in Braille, and Pat has cracked open the spine to re-read it (nice and slow) on a Sunday evening.

Of course, Brian is whimpering, like, the _whole_ time

(he can’t help it)

up into Pat’s mouth, little pitiful _hmm_ ’s that beg and plead

(but quietly)

for help, for more.

Pat pulls away and just looks at him, pulls his chin up with a firm hand,

(Brian fucking _loves_ that shit)

thumbs his lower lip, and looks thoughtful. Brian knows he’s deciding if a gag is actually necessary

(it _is_ )

and so he begs for it (and if he puts a little extra effort in, maybe Pat will get excited and _hurry this along_ )

“ _Please_ gag me. You’ll make me scream. I’m a noisy little slut and I need something in my mouth.”

“Mmm.” Pat just continues to play with Brian’s lip. “We’ll see. Maybe.”

This is the _worst_ answer, and Brian can’t bite his lip when Pat’s fucking with it, so he just huffs out a little breath and pouts.

Pat kisses him very chastely on the forehead and lets go.

Brian is _crushed_ by the loss of touch. He wants to clamber up on the bed immediately, to take this train to horizontal-town, but he hesitates. He doesn’t know the game, yet. Pat never tells him the game. Maybe this is a punishment. Maybe it’s a reward. Maybe he’s supposed to get on his knees and beg and beg. Maybe Pat’s just really really happy to see him and wants to treat him like glass. Maybe Pat wants to make him scream so loud that Jonah thinks he’s getting low-key murdered. Maybe—

“Am I in trouble?” he asks, to quiet the rush of thoughts

(and also figure out: bed or floor)

“A little,” Pat smiles, but catches Brian’s arm as he starts to drop to his knees. “Not that much.”

“How much?” Brian’s voice is a nervous whisper.

“Shhh,” Pat says, pulling him over to the bed. “Nothing to worry about. I just want you to be quiet.”

Brian creases his forehead in concern, because he can make _many_ different kinds of noises,

but _not_ making noise is a continual struggle 

and he’s just going to keep getting in more trouble, he reckons, if that’s the way this night is going to go.

Pat smiles at his worry, and his eyes are bright, and Brian knows the game, now. Oh dear.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,_ ” Brian whispers, wringing his hands in the sheets. “ _Fuck_ you, Patrick.”

Pat has been _licking_ him for _five fucking minutes_

(if not _longer_ it fucking feels like eternity

(an eternity in a _hell_ that is so hot and wet and frictionless))

and he hasn’t been gagged and he hasn’t been tied down and he is going to _die_

(or possibly knee Pat in the face)

if something good or something bad doesn’t fucking happen to him sometime soon.

“ _Fuck_ you Pat fuck you _fuck_.”

“Dyou really want your roommates to hear you talk to me that way?” Pat whispers close to his ear. “So rude.”

It is hard to formulate an answer to that

(his brain cycles are focused on figuring out where Pat’s mouth will be next

(he’s not progressing _logically_ , for fuck’s sake

(it’s like, straight to dick and then hip and then nipple and then _wrist_ and then collarbone and cheek and chin and back to nipple and then mouth and then—

(what the _fuck_ patrick, no one sticks their tongue in people’s _ears_ ))

so it could go literally anywhere next)

and he has to steel himself for not jerking and yelling in pleasure or shock with all of his earthly will)

and so he doesn’t bother, formulating one (an answer) because what was the question, again? Fuck.

“ _Please_ ,” he sobs a little too loud, and Pat pauses

(kind of)

and detaches Brian’s hand from his dark hair

(how’d it get in there? woops)

and chuckles a little and presses it back to the sheets.

“You’re _mean_ ,” Brian breathes, pathetically.

“I know,” Pat trails a finger over his mouth, again. Thinking again. “You want me to make it easy for you.”

“Or hard,” Brian pants. “You can make it hard instead. _Hurt_ me. Please?”

(if he can just get some endorphins going he can probably get into quiet crying pretty quick)

“Please? Hurt me. I _deserve_ it. I’ll cry so pretty for you, daddy, I’ll be _so_ sorry, I really will. I’ll make it _good_.”

“Tempting,” is all Pat says, and goes back to licking.

_Fuck._

 

 

 

 

At _last_ he’s at least allowed to suck on Pat’s fingers

(they just trail idly in his mouth, though, while the rest of Pat explores)

though he is legitimately _going_ to cry if Pat keeps up with these featherlight touches on his dick that get firmer and firmer and wetter and harder and then _stop_

( _why_ do they stop what has he done _wrong_ )

at least the sucking gives him something to do because so far his instructions have consisted entirely of _shh_ and _stay still_ and occasional detaching of his fingers from some place they’re not supposed to go.

He’s given up on the still thing: he’s full on fucking wriggling now, because at least it makes Pat press his warm palm flat on Brian’s body and gently push down to hold him and that’s at least _something_ that’s not wet, soft tongue

(he’s thinking about moving more actually

(like maybe what if he starts to buck too much? will Pat dig his fingers in?

(just _one_ little bruise on his hip would help

(and he’s been gone so long, and there’s like nothing, no marks anywhere))))

something that can ground him a bit.

“What a good slut,” Pat says warmly, stroking into Brian’s mouth. “Trying so hard to be still for me.”

 _Fuck_. Well he can’t move _now_.

“I know it’s not in your nature, baby. It’s difficult.”

“Mmhmm,” Brian agrees.

“Can you do something for me?”

 _“Yes_ ,” he whispers fervently. Please, god, yes. He desperately wants to be told to _do_ something, anything, _any_ instruction but just to lie here and be quiet while Patrick takes him apart.

Pat’s fingers are gone but he’s moving, then, hips up near Brian’s head, and he’s _so_ fucking grateful, yes, please, _please_ let his mouth do something useful, he’ll be so good, he’ll take it all like a perfect little whore, he’ll be so so so quiet with Pat’s cock in his mouth—some of this he’s pretty sure he says out loud—maybe?—

but Pat’s just pulling pillows behind his head deliberately.

“I want you to keep your eyes open, baby. I want you to look at me.”

_Fucking hell Patrick_

—he doesn’t realize _that_ was out loud until Pat’s eyes are laughing at him, as Pat slowly

( _s l o w l y_ )

takes Brian’s dick in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

“I want to fuck you.”

“…”

“Is that a yes? Yes, daddy, I want your cock? Or no, I’m tired, I’m done for the night?”

“ _Yessss._ ”

“Shhh. Too _loud_. You’re not getting anything if you can’t be quiet.”

“…”

“Stop moving, baby. When you’re still and you’re quiet I’ll get you ready.”

“…”

“There we go. Feel that?”

“Mmmhmmm”

“Too much?”

 _“No_!”

“Shhh. You’re too loud. If you make a fuss I’ll stop right now.”

“ _Please_ —”

“No. Don’t be greedy. You don’t get two fingers until you can be good with one.”

“… _please…”_

“Shhh. Let me fuck you a little bit. You’re too tight, baby. Just real nice and easy now. Slow.”

“ _……FUCK you patrick you KNOW I can take more….please FUCK please_ ”

“Hmm. This is _your_ fault, you know.”

“…”

“You made me curious. About how patient you can be. With all your teasing.”

“…. _I swear to god Patrick if you breathe on my dick again I will come on your fucking FACE._ ”

“Now that’s not very nice.”

“ _…._ ”

“You _do_ know that I can go slower if I feel like it. I’m a patient man.”

“…… _ple-ease_ ”

“I wonder if you can come without me touching you at all.”

“ _no…_ ”

“I _know_ you could. It might take all night, but you could.”

“……ple _ease_ ”

“Yknow that thing where you say a word so many times you forget what it means?”

“…”

“I like to see you like this. You’re so fucking _desperate._ ”

“ _ple—ah”_

“All you want in the whole world is my cock and you’re not thinking about _anything_ else, are you?”

“ _No_ , sir—”

“That’s right. Your slutty little brain just wants _one_ thing. Shall I give it to you?”

“ _Please—god—pat—sir—daddy—please—just— fuck me”_

“Shhhh. Too loud. You’re gonna scream, if I fuck you right now.”

“ _I—”_

“You will. I know you will. You’ll scream like a wild thing and Jonah will hear you.”

“I don’t _care —pat—please—”_

“ _Shhhh_. All right. Bite down on this, slut. And be _quiet._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

He’s _not_ quiet, for the record.

 

And Jonah _does_ make fun of him, for nearly a month.

 

But fuck

no one can be _all things to all people_

and Pat’s dick feels too good

and even though Laura _glares_ at him after Pat leaves in the morning

it was fucking _worth. it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS  
> \- sex: anal sex (not explicit), lots of teasing / edging  
> \- language: filthy name-calling, daddy kink  
> \- kink: edging, loud sex / audio exhibitionism? is that a thing?  
> \- BDSM: D/s dynamics, insults, humiliation


	14. - rope -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat figures out a new hobby. so does brian.
> 
> _it was cinematic / how we loved / longshot! jump cut! close up!_

With Brian, sex is… _different._

Pat’s not inexperienced. He’s had sex. Talked about sex. Shared sexy stories. Had bad sex _._ Stopped in the middle of sex. Found stuff weirdly sexy. Argued about what constitutes healthy sex. Written sexy messages. Hidden his sex toys.

But none of that is like what he and Brian do together.

With Brian, sex isn’t a hobby. It’s not just something Brian does. It’s something he _is._ It’s so deeply entwined with his being, his thoughts, his feelings, his strengths, his weaknesses, his joy, his pain. It would be _inconceivable_ to have sex with Brian without also learning almost everything about him. What he dreams about. What makes him feel scared. What his childhood was like. How he wants to die. What makes him laugh uproariously. What makes him cry desperate tears. How he sees himself, how he sees others. What he believes in, and what he wishes for.

It’s fucking stupid, it makes Pat feel _stupid_ , how amazingly brilliant this kid is. How open. How sexy and free and alive. It makes him stupid, but it also makes him brave.

Brian doesn’t get a lot out of Pat, not in the normal way—

the way where you move your vocal cords and out come words—

words that explain what the fuck you are and how you got that way—

but Pat is okay at jokes, at sudden stabs of dark brutal honesty, at being angry and at being wicked. He’s good at moaning with desire or with anguish. He’s good at playing a part, and he’s good at losing his fucking mind. He’s good at being in love with Brian—roughly—

and Brian is good at seeing all the things that Pat never explains, all the whats and whys and wherefores—

and then, after that—

all the hows and wheres and whens—

usually something like “together? your place? next week?”

and fucking off they go.

 

* * *

 

When they’re watching a trash movie together one night— _Howard the Duck_ , worst fucking comic book movie ever made, but Brian loves terrible movies and Pat loves things that he can love to hate—there’s some campy scene with Lea Thompson and whats-his-face, and Brian is half-asleep and tipsy but he shifts in Pat’s arms as if he’s _embarrassed_ , for some reason.

Pat’s been having sex with Brian long enough to know that almost anything about this kid can be beautiful—

even something brought on from a shitty movie. So he asks. “You bored?”

“No!” Brian squeaks, and his voice sounds like a blush. Like he sounds when he’s playing innocent or someone’s given him a compliment, or he’s just made a joke that went a little _too_ far because maybe knowing what a leather daddy is isn’t office-appropriate.

Pat looks up a the screen for clues, and guesses.

“Ah. You like a damsel-in-distress, hmm? Either that or you’re into ducks.”

Brian groans and hides his face. “God I’m the worst.”

“You’re not,” Pat strokes his hair, teasingly. “Tell daddy your secrets.”

“I’m just the worst,” Brian repeats, brushing his hand over his eyes. “I was just remembering. Being a kid. And getting turned on from shit like this in movies. _So_ fucking embarrassing.”

Pat smiles and tweaks his cheek. “Tell me more. What did you like? Out with it.”

“Ropes,” Brian admits quickly, though his cheeks are flaming.

“Ah,” Pat says, stroking down his neck. “That makes sense.”

“I don’t know why,” Brian says, in a voice caught between desire and despair. “It started really early. Like, maybe before I even knew what sex _was_ , okay. My parents were totally normal. Nothing happened, that made me this way. I’ve just always been a freak. My brain is fucked up.”

Something hangs in the air, for a moment, between them. Something that neither one can talk about. Something that drives deep into their insecurities, their fears, into the dark nooks and crannies of their parallel hearts.

“You’re not a freak,” Pat says. “Your brain just knows how beautiful you look when you’re tied down.”

Brian shivers.

“Let’s get into ropes,” Pat presses. “I’ve always liked them. Probably longer than you, babe.”

“Were you tying kids to the railroad tracks when you played pretend in kindergarten,” Brian says, eyes screwed shut. “Because some of us got started early.”

“Adorable,” Pat strokes a finger down Brian’s nose. “You’ve always been just the same.”

“I’ve always been a disaster,” Brian’s wincing with his eyes closed. “Always wanted to give it up for any cute goth kid who sauntered by. Before I knew what _it_ was.”

Pat laughs and sticks a finger in Brian’s mouth; as he suspected, the blush stays, color on Brian’s high cheekbones, but he sucks greedily, swirling his tongue. “Such a natural.”

Brian cracks his eyelid, half bashfully, but his gaze begs for _more._

“Born to be a little slut, hmm? Sucking on anything that stays still long enough.”

The tongue and lips seem to be making the truth out of his words, recklessly, as he adds another finger.

“What a good whore. You’ll love me tying you down and wearing your hot little ass out.”

Brian’s nodding and squirming in guilty delight. Pat is grinning, but somewhere in the back of his mind he is also fighting to see if he remembers anything from Boy Scouts, and maybe if he can still tie a bowline…

 

* * *

 

  

It’s fucking adorable, how excited Brian gets by the ropes Pat picks out.

They’re not expensive, but they are tidy and sleek, he supposes—nylon in bold jewel colors that he privately thinks will look striking against Brian’s skin. He also gets a few more traditional hemp ones, in case Brian really is looking for that old-school-movie feel.

The ropes take up residence in their bedroom long before they get any _real_ use, because Pat’s trying to learn how to tie things and it’s not fucking _easy_ —you can’t just loop a coil of rope around and pull, okay—you have to learn how to do things right so nobody’s adorable little toes fall off.

And remember, Brian’s a fucking _wiggler_ —

so if Pat’s going to take the time to do this he’s gotta do it _well_ —

or at least well enough that Brian won’t have it off in fifteen seconds.

So Pat spends a few weeks on youtube—

tying and retying things, on his own wrists, his ankles, the bedpost, pillows, door handles—

how to tie a knot with one hand, how to untie something quickly, how to hitch a thing to another thing so you can pull them together smooth and elegant, how to make it all flat and even so it won’t catch on clothes.

He actually surprises himself, with how much he enjoys practicing—

there’s an elegant physicality to tying things well that makes him feel calm and centered—

and even on his own hairy wrists, he can appreciate when it looks _right_ , symmetrical—

and of course—

there’s the fact that all the practice is driving Brian absolutely _nuts_. By the end of the month he’s _clambering_ onto Pat’s lap every day as soon as they get home, kissing and stroking and whining and making small huffy promises and trying to beg, bargain, or coerce his way into what he wants.

“I’m _working_ on it, kid,” Pat laughs, as Brian crushes into his chest for the third night in a row—

already begging as soon as the they’re halfway in the door, fingers working at Pat’s shirt buttons cleverly, mouth wavering between whispers of infinite promised pleasures and seductive lapping at Pat’s nipples. 

“You’re putting too much pressure on me,” Pat groans lustily—

Brian’s hands are already sliding to his hips, fighting their way under the waistband of his pants—

“I can’t live up to this kind of expectation. I’m gonna fuck it up.”

“You’re not,” Brian hums where his hot little mouth is licking, his chin digging in to the crease of Pat’s hipbone. “You’re not, you’re not. There’s no expectations. You can’t keep practicing without me. It’s not _fair._ ”

Pat tries to concentrate while his pants are being unbuckled with such facility. “ _God_ , Brian, I just don’t want to fuck it up when it counts, okay? ‘Cause it’ll really— _jesus_ christ—throw off my mojo if I dislocate your elbow.”

“I’m double-jointed,” he breathes on Pat’s dick—

which has somehow been exposed in the past three seconds of conversation and is now contending with Brian’s full repertoire of rhetorical expertise.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat swears. “Of _course_ you are. Je _—zus_ fucking Christ in heaven almighty, Brian—let me sit _down_ —.”

“Tomorrow?” Brian says hopefully, batting his eyelashes up at Pat and feathering his fingers over the tip of his cock. “Please?”

“ _God_ I’m definitely going to fuck this up,” Pat laments.

“You’re not,” Brian repeats again, kissing up his length. “Please, let’s try. Please please. I’ll do _anything_ you want tonight. I’ll hold still like a good boy. I’ll go steal Laura’s clothes again. _Anything_.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Pat catches Brian’s hair, pulls his head back a bit so he has a goddamn _chance_ of finishing this conversation without coming right in the middle. “You’re so goddamn hot when you want something this bad.”

Brian, foiled in his attempts, just glances up with lidded eyes and uses his thumb to swirl Pat’s precome around his own lips, saucy and sparkling with excitement. “ _Please_ , Pat. I’ll make it worth your while. I can make you feel so good. I’ll make you come _three times_ tonight.”

“You’re fucking insatiable,” Pat groans. “I’m over thirty, so that sounds more like a _threat_.”

“Maybe it is,” Brian teases, sneaking his wet finger to stroke the underside of Pat’s cock. “Maybe when you’re all worn out and aching and I’m trying for a fourth you’ll listen to me.”

“My _god_ , you devil child—all right, all right. We can try tomorrow. I’ll try.”

Brian jumps up to do a little dance of joy, letting Pat tumble bonelessly onto the sofa.

“ _Fuck_ ,” his hand is over his eyes, as he tries to take shaking breaths _—_

ones that don’t shudder with telling embarrassment and lust.

Brian is already climbing back onto him, wriggling in celebration and covering him with grateful kisses.

“Did you interrogate for the CIA in a past life, or…”

“I don’t expect you to talk, Meester Bond,” Brian proclaims, throwing his hair back, grinning rakishly from his seat pinning Pat’s hips.

“You’re incorrigible,” Pat says, grabbing the squirming little shoulders firmly. “Now I’ve given up the goods, so less gloating and more kissing.”

Brian finds this agreeable, although he certainly _grins_ a lot all evening.

  

* * *

 

 

The next day, when Brian knocks, and Pat opens the door, he looks—

calmer than Pat expected. Excited around the eyes, but his face is quiet. “You cleaned up,” he says, eyes flicking past into the room.

“Yup,” Pat says, and waits to be teased about his usual mess his house is in, but it never comes. Brian just moves in, a little tentative, and plucks at his shirt.

“Should I…?”

“Come here, first,” Pat directs, and pulls Brian in for a kiss. It’s sweet, and soft, like they’re doing it for the first time.

Pat supposes they kind of are. It’s so fucking marvelous, how this kid is like an Escher painting, an endless stairway of firsts, always climbing higher and never reaching the top.

They flirt for a while, orbiting around each other like nervous kids on their honeymoon—

Brian has a drink—Pat has water—they both make a joke—Brian takes off his shoes—they move to the sofa—Pat _moves_ the sofa—Brian sits on the floor, cross-legged—Pat ruffles his hair—Brian pulls off his shirt—Pat presses down on his shoulders affectionately, looks at him—

he’s dressed just how Pat asked—shirtless, in those slim black yoga pants that end under the knee.

It’s so good, looking at Brian. Especially when he’s like this. Pupils wide and dark, face tipped just a little up. Excited. Waiting. Trusting. Burning with endless energy. Forcing himself to be calm.

“You make me feel shy,” Brian blushes, “when you look at me like that.”

“Like what,” Pat murmurs, as he settles himself to sit behind Brian.

“I dunno,” Brian says softly. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Like I’m a crazy old fool?” Pat says, because he feels okay saying stupid things, when Brian’s so still.

“Something like that,” Brian smiles, a touch teasing, turning his head back to look at Pat.

Pat’s not talking, though. He’s got the bight of the rope in his mouth, and he’s thinking, and touching. His hands slide up Brian’s back, down his ribcage. He presses his arms under Brian’s, slides his fingers down from the biceps to the wrists on the inside. Gently pulls them behind.

Of course, Pat hasn’t picked the simplest thing to start. He’s a damn fool—

but at least the wrists are simple. He’s done that one so many times, he can do it without looking. Slide the rope behind them—wrap twice—cross—twist—loop—slide the bight through—pull—first knot.

Brian is quiet, which is odd, but Pat doesn’t think he’s unhappy. He’s just breathing, steady, as Pat wraps the rope around his bicep—

careful, careful, not too high—

across his chest, his other arm—

back again, meet itself, reverse direction—

it sort of works, the parallel lines, the tension. He smoothes them carefully as he pulls through the loops on Brian’s back, ties another knot.

Over the shoulder is easy again—he slides his hand across Brian’s chest, to pull the end of the rope under and back up. Brian leans his head back. Pat can smell the whisky on his breath as his face brushes past.

“You all right?” he murmurs, without stopping.

“Mmmhmmm,” Brian says. He sounds blissed out and floating already, which surprises Pat, but also encourages him.

“The next bit might take me a few tries,” Pat confesses.

Brian just nods and kisses Pat’s neck softly as he lifts his head.

It _does_ take a few tries—

the kid doesn’t seem to mind, though, so pliant and _quiet_ while Pat tries again and again—

since it seems like he’s enjoying himself, Pat takes the time to make sure things are tidy—

he knows what he _wants_ , and he’s going to _have_ it, by God—

Brian’s arms bound tight at his sides, ropes cutting across his chest high and low, a knot just under each of his collarbones, a diamond of rope pulled taut in the center of his chest—

there’s a lot of touching, the whole time—

hooking an arm around the kid’s neck, to reach in front, knot something around something else—

fingers inching in where his arms are bound tight at his sides, snaking in another loop—

pulling, then testing with a finger to check that it’s snug but not tight—

kissing, when he feels like it, the nape of Brian’s neck, nuzzling under his ear.

When he’s done with the chest and the arms, he knots it off carefully, keeps track of his slack. He can do something else with that, maybe. If Brian’s amenable.

“How does that feel,” Pat checks, stroking Brian’s hands, his wrists.

Brian hums.

This isn’t much of an answer, so Pat moves around to his side, lets his legs press up against the kid’s, looks at him. He’s got his eyes closed but he’s good, Pat thinks, just not listening very much.

“Hey,” he pulls the harness at the shoulder, revels in how Brian’s body drags after his touch, gently bending to his will. He pushes and pulls a bit, rocks his center of gravity, with a finger under the rope. “You chill?”

Another hum, but certainly an affirmative one.

“You look fucking gorgeous,” Pat breathes. “I could do this all night.”

“Please,” Brian manages to surface enough to say.

“I’m going to kiss you for a while now,” Pat strokes a hand down his chest. “When you can’t get away from me. And then, if you like, I’ll tie your legs too. All right?”

Brian melts into his touch and lets Pat bowl him over, press his weight onto his arms, add Pat’s weight to his chest and hold him down. It’s wonderful, to suck hot marks onto his shoulders, while he flexes under Pat’s touch, testing the ropes for the first time. He pushes gentle at first, feeling how they move, feeling which ones pull when others go slack.

“Thinking about getting loose?” Pat murmurs, amused, into Brian’s neck.

“Not yet,” Brian says in an airy voice. “Just enjoying myself.”

“I am too,” Pat grins, and bites down to suck a darker hickey right under his ear, where he can’t possibly hide it. “You’re so hot like this. Right where I want you. My little plaything.”

Brian whimpers—

it’s fucking _sexy_ , when he whimpers like that—

whimpers with feverish desire and absolutely no way to take action on it—

Pat can just roll him over how he pleases and take his kisses to the back of Brian’s neck, instead.

Teeth on skin is as good back here as on the front—

watching Brian’s fingers flex futilely is better, though—

he thinks the kid’ll probably get the hands out, when he really tries. Maybe he can fix that, later—

but for now, it’s about groping Brian’s ass possessively, and kissing his sweet little wrists.

“I love your arms like this,” Pat admits, whispers into Brian’s shoulderblade. “Behind you. Out of the way. Nothing they can do to stop me. Love how your chest arches, when you’re trying to get them loose. How they push down to try and stop me from touching your ass. They can’t, but you always try. It’s so cute.”

Brian breathes into the floor, as Pat drags a slow hand up the crack of his ass, pressing in suggestively. He could fuck Brian like this, he thinks. Preferably not on the floor. But he could do it—he wonders if Brian would stay how he is now—quiet and floaty and just totally helpless—or if he would buck and moan and come alive as the cock presses in—

“I want to fuck you,” he growls in Brian’s ear. “But not yet.”

“What—what—first?” It seems like so much effort, every word that Brian presses out. Slurred, kind of, like he’s drunk, though he’s only had a half-of-one, and that doesn’t get even Brian drunk.

“Is this enough? Or do you want me to try something stricter. It might be a strain.”

“ _Please_ ,” Brian finally opens his eyes, to beg—they’re a little unfocused, but he finds Pat’s face eventually. “Try?”

“Good boy,” Pat strokes his face, and Brian closes his eyes blissfully again. “Let’s see what you can take.”

 

 

* * *

 

Pat pushes Brian back up into his seated position—he goes easily.

Brian is watching him now, trying to guess where this is going, or maybe trying to learn how the knots work. Pat decides to narrate, because why not.

“This is a single column. For your ankles. Cross them—here. So your shins are perpendicular. Then I’ll wrap it around—twist, cross, loop—easy. Stays snug, won’t pull tight. Now the tricky part—”

A length of rope goes through the knot around Brian’s ankles, then Pat stands, taking the end up with him.

“I could just loop it around your neck,” Pat says conversationally, stroking the nape with a delicate hand, letting himself feel Brian’s body react to that. He has goosebumps. “But I think I’ll make use of some of my work back here.”

He folds the rope over the shoulder, threads it around the back of the harness, and down the other shoulder. It meets at the loop near his feet and Pat slips it through.

“Here’s the fun bit,” Pat smiles, when Brian throws his hair up, looks up at Pat, eyes wide. “I pull until you tell me to stop, sweet thing. And then you stay there, because you can’t help it.”

Brian lets him pull agonizingly slowly, not fighting but not collapsing, as the rope drags his shoulders inexorably closer to his feet. Eventually he has to curl his head down, breath slowing, as his body fights against the pressure.

“I think you’d let me tie your neck to your ankles,” Pat says affectionately, “even if you couldn’t catch a breath. How long do you think you could stay like this?”

He lets his free hands tease over Brian’s nipples as his other one draws him, cruelly, tighter.

“Not—long—” Brian admits, as Pat pushes him to the limits of his breathing, shallow and short.

“Don’t think that’s really up to you, is it,” Pat teases, pinching his nipples.

“No—sir,” Brian agrees, raising his head with effort. His face is pink, and his pupils are _crazy_.

“I’ll be merciful today though,” he relents, letting up on the pressure considerably. Brian’s back straightens a bit and Pat waits until his breathing is calm and steady again, until he’s only barely curving forward with the pressure of the rope. He ties it off there, through and over and tight as best as he can.

It’s beautiful, when he steps back, and sees Brian’s bent shoulders before him, perfectly cowed and so soft, breathing visible as they rise and fall.

“How’s that,” Pat asks, touching his arm.

“Fine, sir,” Brian says, sounding far away.

“Fingers?”

“Normal,” Brian hums, as if batting away an annoying fly. “No tingles. Fine.”

It’s too tempting, the urge to push him, to tip him over, and Pat indulges himself. He presses hard, not fast but relentless, carefully, over onto his side.

“Oops,” Pat draws his hands up Brian’s ass. He can touch _everything_ from this angle, and enjoy seeing him writhe helplessly. He pinches hard, groping up his thighs to brush against the hard cock from below, making Brian moan. “You like that, baby?” He brushes again, not really _enough_ pressure but enough contact to make Brian gasp. “I thought we were just having a little fun. Didn’t know you were so hard already.”

Brian lets him tease for minutes more, squeezing and brushing and tickling, working him from gasps to moans to sobs of frustrated need. He loves how the tight, smooth fabric clings to the ass, letting him grab and stroke and prod whatever he wants, but never giving enough friction to really rub against.

“ _Please_ ,” Brian is finally, finally begging, and struggling to get his hands free. He can’t, yet, but he’s trying. _“_ Please touch me.”

“I am touching you, baby,” Pat strokes lightly again, ignoring Brian’s tears. “What more do you want?”

 _“Fuck_ me,” he whimpers. “Can you—please—”

“I think I’d have to let you go, first. And that’d be _such_ a shame. You’re so fucking hot like this. Totally helpless. I could tease you as long as I wanted.”

Brian can’t even beg anymore, just writhes and moans while Pat gropes. It’s so tempting, to play with him like this for ages, but Pat eventually tears his hands away.

“Okay, baby. I’m gonna let you have my cock. I’ll even fuck you, if you’re good. Let’s get your legs free, and then you use your mouth, okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Brian agrees, and Pat hurries to unwind the ropes, his own dick twitching now with urgency as well. Brian’s trying to push up to his knees before he’s even loose, and Pat has to keep shushing him and telling him to be still while he pulls slowly and uncurls his knees, his back.

Brian’s up on his knees, then, before Pat’s standing even, mouthing at Pat’s ear and whining.

“So eager, pet. How are your fingers?”

“Good,” Brian says impatiently, as Pat stands, helping himself up with pressure on Brian’s shoulder that moves, when he’s standing, to the kid’s head. “Please—can I—”

“Can you what?” Pat says in amusement as Brian’s sentence trickles off, as if he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be shy or lewd, or what will get his mouth around Pat the fastest. He pulls on the ropes again, swaying Brian’s body back and forth. “Tell me what your heart desires, pet.”

“I want your cock in my throat, sir,” Brian’s eyes are looking up at him, wide and dark and wonderful. “I want to taste you.”

It’s fucking—

 _very_ good—

hearing Brian say that, looking like he does, on his knees, arms bound tight at his sides, rope starting to cut in just the slightest bit—leaving pale red lines that sneak into visibility when he shifts his body eagerly. It’s too good for Pat to think of anything clever to say—

except _you’re beautiful_ —

and it’s too good for Pat to do anything except slide himself out swiftly and press into that lovely little mouth.

 _Jesus_ —

fuck—God—how— _shit_ —

how is the kid this fucking _good_ —

he—

_fuck_

he is _perfect_ —god—

it’s too good—

if he—

_fuck_

he’s _staring_ up at Pat—

if Pat’s not going to come right away he needs to look somewhere else—

it’s _too much_ , that stare—

Pat closes his eyes and tilts his head back—

lets Brian budge his hips back and forth with gentle pressure—not thrusting—just letting him—

 _fuck_ it’s good—

 _Jesus M_ ary mother of God it’s good—

the way he _sucks_ —

what his tongue—

_fuck_

—ahem, what his tongue does—

the way he pulls, firm but not hard, on Pat’s balls—

the tension is so perfect—

with the swirling and the wetness

his clever little hands squeezing at exactly the right moments, always—

_hang on_

“Hey!”

 

* * *

  

Pat’s a lucky man, and Brian’s a real scamp, so he’s long been familiar with the feeling of Brian smiling around his dick. He knows the kid is pleased with himself, even before he looks down. He’s not quite _free_ —

but his hands—

_fuck_

—are most certainly free, and he’s doing wicked fucking things with them, toying with Pat’s balls, sneaking up higher to drag against his ass.

Brian stands, then, suddenly—presses a hand on Pat’s chest and pushes him so he goes stumbling back—

Pat wants to say _you little_ —

—but he just makes a sound of surprised pleasure as Brian is biting into his mouth—his face is wet, covered in spit—Brian’s hands are all over him, hungry, pulling, pinching, teasing, and he’s being bowled over—his knees hit the mattress and he lets himself fall—

Pat hears a laugh—it’s his own—as Brian’s mouth is pulled away and he sees Brian’s face—triumphant, pleased, blissful, _lusty_ —his expression says _I did it I did it I did it_ —and Pat doesn’t feel _too_ badly, to be thwarted, because that expression tells him at least it was _reasonably_ tricky—

“Ahhh _ahhhh,_ ” Brian chides, giggling, as he sits on Pat’s hips and Pat tries to lean up, to touch him—Brian grabs his wrists and pins them by his head, and the pressure of him leaning feels good, and his mouth tastes good too, and Pat bucks up but not too hard because this is _good,_ letting Brian flip the script, letting himself be overtaken by surprise and pleasure. “ _I_ win this round, Pat Gill. You’re mine, now.”

“Like usual,” Pat smiles, twists ever-so-slightly beneath his captor. “Shoulda known you were being too quiet. Guess I don’t need to ask you how your fingers are doing.”

Brian squeezes his wrists and grins.

“All right, handsome. You got me fair and square. What’re you gonna do with me?”

Brian’s face is—unusual—not quite so floaty anymore but still glowing, smiling and proud and wonderful and worked-up and _daring_ —

“Can I fuck you,” Brian says throatily

—how could anyone, anyone say no to a face like that?

“Of _course_.”

 

* * *

  

It’s only a few beats before clothes and lube and positioning and other arrangements are settled—but even a minute or two is enough that Pat gets kind of nervous—

they haven’t done this very much, actually—a few times—and he’s done it with Simone but that’s a little different—it feels good but it also _hurts like a bitch_ —he has some hangups about enjoying it _too_ too much—

hangups that Brian is currently untangling with his clever, wicked little fingertips.

“You’re so wonderful,” Brian breathes, pauses to lick up his cock again. “I can’t believe—you learned how to do all this for me.”

“It was….okay?” Pat hates how his voice breaks a little—

—Brian was _so_ excited, though—and he wants to give Brian the world—and also, Brian is gently working in a second finger and it feels good but _fuck_ he knows he’s tight—

“Patrick,” Brian chides, strokes inside him—Pat moans. “Don’t be a goofball. I _know_ how my face gets. I know you can see it. I know you see that I’m absolutely fucking out-of-my body excited.”

“You’re beautiful,” Pat agrees with a sigh. “ _Aaah—”_

“Too much?”

“No—no. Fine. You’re just—ah—brushing something.”

“Oh, am I?” Brian’s smile is wicked. He does it again, of course. A couple more times. Until Pat makes a noise that is almost a wail.

“More?”

 _“Please_ , sweet Jesus.”

“Working on it.”

“Lord—is this— _ah!_ — _God_ Brian—is this gonna be a thing—every time I don’t get my knots right?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He strokes. His voice is soft, and not at all wry.

“It’s fine— _fuck—_ turnabout is fair play—I’ll be reminded to— _ah—_ do better next time—”

This isn’t, apparently, exactly the right thing to say, because Brian pulls back with a little sound. “I—I wasn’t—” His breath hitches a little, and Pat leans up on an elbow, to look at him. He’s staring at Pat very wide-eyed and Pat feels like a fucking jerk, because that brilliant glowing burning confidence is dimmed, yet again, by Pat’s fucking inability to just _ask for what he fucking wants—_

“Kid. Kid, I’m into it. Really.”

Brian strokes a hand down his thigh, takes a couple breaths, closes his eyes. He’s still a little shaky, Pat knows. Not quite in his body the way he normally is. He doesn’t usually do this kind of thing, spontaneous. It’s a lot. No costumes, no chitchat, no pre-pro, no negotiation, no hints about what his fucking inscrutable silent scowly boyfriend is _really_ thinking, when he makes sounds that could be pleasure or pain.

“Kid. You can stop, or you can keep going. It’s good. Nothing hurts.”

“I wasn’t trying to punish you,” Brian says softly, and he’s still got his eyes closed, and if he cries

 _—_ oh god if he cries _—_

 _—_ it will break Pat’s _heart_.

“I mean, I c- _can_ punish you, if you want. But I was just trying to…you didn’t do anything wrong—you made me feel so good, Pat—I wanted to—”

“Shhhh, babe” Pat says, and it’s hard to shift his weight on his elbow and get his arm up to touch Brian’s hair, but he does. “I know. I _know_ , Brian. You’re trying to blow my fuckin mind, and I’m up here just saying dumb bullshit. ‘Cause I get nervous. You know how I am. I’m a total asshole. It’s way easier for me to pretend I don’t wanna get fucked.”

“But…you…you do? Right?”

Pat looks at Brian, and for once, for  _once_ , it's easy.

“ _Desperately_ , hot stuff. _Look_ at you.” Brian’s so intense and aroused, beautiful red dents in his skin, body still tense, but looking a little better than a moment before. It's urgent, Pat's need to make him smile again. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_. I want you to fuck me all day. I’m making noise because it feels fucking _good_ , baby, so if you’re still into it _please_ get your wicked little hands back where they were and you’ll _hear_ how good it is.”

“Okay,” Brian says shyly, and then hint of a smile smooths tension Pat hadn’t realized was in his own shoulders. His fingers are trailing against Pat’s ass again, thank _god_. “You’ll make some noise for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Pat grunts, as Brian gets quickly back to where they were before. “I’ll fucking— _ah_ —sing your praises to the heavens, if you can just— _ah_ — _that_ , yes, exactly”

 

* * *

 

They don’t do this often, but Pat kind of forgets why, because it’s so fucking good—

Brian’s so careful, and watches him so close—every thrust like a calculation—this kid is doing fucking _trigonometry_ to make sure Pat is weak in the knees—

he bats Pat’s rough hands away from his own dick, preferring to use his brilliant little genius fingers instead—

they’re softer, slower, keep Pat and himself in perfect harmony—

“You’re so hard,” Brian whispers, and he’s fucking _perfect_ , he even knows what to _say_ , nothing too sweet, dear god, no pleasantries when he’s jolting into Pat’s ass and Pat’s moaning in that embarrassing way. “I want you to come with my cock in you. You’re so fucking tight, Pat. I want to feel you.”

“ _Please_ ,” Pat says, a bit strained—

well, fuck denial, he _sobs_ it, okay—

and Brian bucks, and jerks, and keeps track of everything—

it’s wild, to just _be_ —

and to feel this many things—

and all the things feel so good that his back is arching and he know he sounds obscene, but _fuck_ —

“ _Please_ ,” Pat begs, though he doesn’t know why—“Please can I come—fuck”

and Brian bucks hard in vicious delight and says—

_something—_

hopefully it was a yes.

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t _know_ how much I liked this,” Brian says, in an odd tone. He takes a long while to wind down, that night. They make it through a whole movie, afterward, which is pretty normal for Pat but Brian usually curls up like a sleepy cat and conks right the fuck out before they’ve even finished watching establishing shots.

“Good,” Pat says, in some relief. “I was a little worried. Not because—you were fucking _amazing_ —you were just really _quiet_ for a bit there—”

“Yeah.” Brian flashes a grin. “Sometimes it’s more intense when I’m not concentrating so hard on acting.”

“We can act if you want, kid, I just couldn’t figure out a plausible reason why your character would sit there for forty-five minutes letting me fuck with knots. I think that would strain even _your_ creativity. Figured the only way to work it was to play it straight.”

“I _like_ it,” Brian’s hand soothes his hair. “The intensity. It’s _really_ good. To just be me, sometimes.”

“You’re not gonna hear me complaining.” Pat tilts his head, earning a scratch on the crown.

“Also…”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, if you _want_ to do a character, I think like aesthetically the rope thing would suit something along the lines of like…Japanese courtesan…”

Pat laughs. This kid is fucking _ridiculous_ , and nothing will ever slow him down.

“Storyboard it for me, then, Brian- _chan_ , and I’ll see what I can do.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> \- **sex:** oral, anal sex (& partner-switching!)  
> \- **BDSM:** bondage, D/s dynamics, jockeying for top  
> \- **kink:** shibari (rope bondage), escapism  
> \- **language:** affectionate use of _slut_ and _whore_ and other stuff like that  
> \- **other:** moment of brief doubt and then affirmation of all parties' enthusiasm


	15. -- cash - (make it hard on me))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simone inserts herself. vigorously.
> 
>  
> 
> _I can't decide / Whether you should live or die / Oh, you'll probably go to heaven / Please don't hang your head and cry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'tis a rough & nasty one, you cool babies.

Simone comes over for the weekend while Brian’s in Baltimore, to keep Pat company. They goof around—write stuff, go out for too-expensive drinks, smoke on Pat’s couch, fuck a lot, and generally have a good time.

When she looks up at him, rolling an idea in her head for the third time that night, eyes dark, Pat just gives her the _slightest_ push—because he knows Simone— and whatever it is she’s not going to let it go until her curiosity is satisfied.

“You better ask, whatever it is.”

She gives a little quirk of her mouth. Pat wants to kiss her, but sometimes she gets pissed when he’s distracted like that—

maybe she’s focusing hard, on whatever it is she wants to say, working up the nerve. 

“Can I play with you and Brian again, sometime?”

Pat hesitates—because he’s _him_ , and he always fucking hesitates, even about things he desperately wants—

but he’s also a little different now than he was before.

“I’d like that, Simone.”

She’s so happy her whole body shows it, sparking and shifting as she leans back. “You would? And he—?”

“Would too. He likes you. What are you thinking?”

“Oh my god I have so many _ideas_ , Pat,” she gushes a little, and Pat maybe underestimated how excited she was about this, how much she wants to do it again. How much relief he feels that she’s not just done it all as a favor to him. “They’d be so _fun_.”

“Fun for him, fun for me, or just fun for you?”

She shoots him a look. “I can multitask.”

Pat can’t help but grin, and push back the hairs from her face, affectionately. “Oh, of course.”

“Watching you two together is incredible,” she says, suddenly. “His face, your face. Even last time—you lookin’ at him, _oh no simone don’t huuuuuuuuurt him—_ it made me feel like—I’m tying someone to the railroad tracks—”

It’s _impossible_ not to kiss her, then. When she’s contemplating how wicked she likes to be. She tastes like weed and brandy, and her tongue responds eagerly.

“You’re so good at being bad, Simone,” Pat hums. “We really don’t deserve you.”

“I’m a giver,” she strokes her hand across Pat’s face, pushing him back a little, though he wants to kiss again. She’s still stuck on something. “Are you sure it was good? Last time. When it was more intense. You still liked it?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure? You’re—different, when he’s there.”

“How so?”

She is looking at him quite hard, now, stroking his face, speaking slowly. Pat knows she’s looking for tells, trying to make sure he’s not...trying to make sure he’s not _once again_ hiding something desperately important from her—something that’s going to crop up at the worst possible moment and careen wild and dangerous into her carefully-constructed scene. 

“More…present. More expressive. Something like that.”

Pat moves his eyes, just slightly, off her face. “Sounds about right. Sounds like maybe that’s easier for you, than my usual.”

“It’s good,” she agrees, moving his hand down to Pat’s collarbone. “And he likes it?”

“He likes everything,” Pat says with a sigh. “Well, to a first approximation. I haven’t found a thing yet that scares him off, God help me. He lets me do…a lot.”

She grins. “Sounds like you’ve got a keeper. What will he let _me_ do?”

Pat brushes a hand through his hair. “You should ask him. My guess—whatever you want.”

“Ooh,” Simone shivers. “Mama likey. He’s so _pretty_ , Patrick. I just wanna _smack_ his little baby face.”

Maybe because he’s high, or maybe because it’s easier to talk shop with Simone, who’s going to hell at least as fast as him, Pat grins instead of feeling shy. “He’s fun to hit. Not like me. He wiggles all over and cries and _begs_ for it. Or begs to stop it. Or whatever you want him to beg for.”

“I’d like that,” she says, eyes lighting with wicked interest. “Don’t get me wrong—I like you—your hardass _break-me-down-you-cunt_ straight-faced thing. But him—I _liked_ fucking him—he’s so expressive—I wanna make him _scream_ —when I saw him naked—your bruises on him—”

Pat feels her hand trailing up his arm, making the hairs stick up with her sweaty palm. He feels odd, at her enthusiasm—guilty, maybe, or at least contrite—but also a swirl of something like pride, that Simone, _his_ Simone, is admiring his handiwork.

“I treat him too rough,” he coughs.

“After he plays with me, he may beg to differ,” she promises in that dark, wicked tone, and then snorts and laughs in a way that almost erases its deadly seriousness. _Almost._

 

 

 

 

 

Simone asks Brian if he wants to go on a walk, during lunch. This isn’t too unusual

(they go out to lunch together pretty often (and they _do_ walk to get there))

but the way she says it is…weird? So Brian gets up without asking questions and follows her out of the office. Pat waves them off, says he’s not interested in tramping around the city for an hour and eating shitty hot dogs, thanks very much. This sounds sincere enough, although later

(in retrospect)

Brian wonders if it was just an excuse Simone fed him so she could get Brian alone.

She walks at a fast clip, making Brian really _hustle_ to keep up

(which doesn’t make any sense, her shoes are _way_ less comfortable than his

(his are faded sneakers, natch))

and she drives the conversation, too, barreling into new topics and observations so fast that Brian has to stay on his toes to get in any quip, anywhere. There’s so few people in the world that make Brian feel slow, but Simone can, sometimes.

“I want to play with you and Pat again,” she says abruptly as they turn a corner

(she decided which corner, and Brian almost got left behind).

He just says “Okay,” because it sounds like she’s going somewhere with this, and she is.

“I had fun last time. Jerking him around. He liked having you there, he said.”

“Oh good,” he says, and it really _is_ a fucking relief, that Pat didn’t mind his weird awkward presence in the corner of the beautiful crazy thing he and Simone do. It could have been different. Pat could have thought—well, that he was a nuisance

(he _did_ have a hard time keeping out of the way)

or too much of an emotional burden

(god, it’s so _hard_ not to cry, though, when someone’s hitting Pat _that_ hard, and telling him he’s…)

or just not worth including again. But Brian apparently did okay, and he’s _so_ glad, because he _loves_ watching them together. It’s so sexy

(because they’re both fucking sexy people and Brian wants either (or both) of them to fuck him so hard he can’t walk)

and so fascinating, to watch Simone hurt Pat, to open up pieces of Pat that Brian hasn’t learned how to lockpick his way into yet.

He realizes Simone has stopped walking and is looking at him quite hard

(probably because he hasn’t said something in a level minute)

and he tries to spit out the things in his brain. “I’d love it. You’re fabulous. I want to play again, in any capacity—whether you just want me to watch, or…”

“Oh no, baby boy,” she purrs, putting her hand on his wrist and sliding her fingers straight up to his shoulder, under his shirt sleeve. “Quite the contrary. I wanted to know if you’d let me get a little more _nasty_ with you.”

It’s so delicious, her voice. Brian shivers. “ _Please_. But you’re so good, Simone. I’m gonna cry right away, just so you know. I’m not like Pat.”

“That’s all right,” she rubs her thumb on his shoulder, and he feels like she’s probing. Testing. They’re just on the edge of the sidewalk, near a building, and people are passing by, but he doesn’t let his attention waver. Her fingers press ever so slightly, tipping him back a step, guiding him. “I don’t have to go so hard.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head quickly. “You don’t understand. _Please_ go hard. I _love_ crying. If you don’t mind. You certainly don’t have to stop when I get a little messy.”

“Got it,” she says, and her nails are pressing into his shoulder wickedly. “When do I stop, then?”

“Uh,” the question is hard, not least because of the nails. “I don’t—always know? I get kinda spacey. Pat is good at—he wraps up before I’m totally wrecked, somehow. I don’t honestly know. But he does it.”

She’s reaching all the way under his shirt now, which is weird, in public, but also fine, as her fingers scratch across his scapula possessively. “I’ll have to make sure he’s paying attention, then.”

“I think he’ll die, to see you hit me,” Brian says suddenly. “I’m not sure if he’ll love it or hate it. Both, probably.”

“I don’t just want to _hit_ you,” Simone’s tone is soft and her fingers are not. “I want to tie you down and beat you black and blue. I want to make you come so many times you forget your name. I want to fuck Pat on top of you while you’re crying through your gag. I want to put marks on your body that make wicked fucks like me see you and think _look at that little pain slut limp fuck I’d like my turn on that ass._ ”

Brian’s whole body is buzzing with nameless pleasure and fear, and though they’re out in the fucking wide open air, he wants nothing more than to get on his knees. “ _Jesus_ , Simone.”

She cackles. “You sound just like him. Trying to pretend like _I’m_ the only freak. Acting all coy.”

“Oh—no no no,” Brian arches his back a little, under her touch. “I’m a freak. I want it all. Please please please please. _Please_ mama Simone, fuck me up right proper. I’m very very very naughty. I need a _stern_ hand. Pat’s too soft with me.”

“You _are_ a brat,” Simone smiles and pets right into the center of his back, approving, soft fingers on soft skin. “He’s too smitten by you. He keeps letting you off with a warning.”

“I’m the worst,” Brian agrees, hoping maybe she’ll kiss him, if he can just get his legs far enough apart that their heads are the same height. “You should definitely punish me, for all the things I’ve done wrong.”

“Hmm,” Simone curls her nail up to his neck, scratching like a dog. “Discipline is important, baby. If I punish you right, you’ll never even have the _urge_ to do anything wrong. I’ll teach you. Come over to my place tomorrow. Pat’ll be there. We’ll show him how much correction his little bitch can take.”

Brian whimpers “Yes’m,” and she’s off walking again.

 

 

 

 

When Brian shows up, Pat isn’t there yet, which is probably good, because once Pat is there Brian won’t be able to keep still at _all_ at all. As it is, he’s still fidgeting

(hands wringing, half nerves, half terrific excitement)

as Simone takes his bag and rummages through it. He’s embarrassed, but also excited

(he’d brought some stuff—

(lube, gags, rope, plugs, clamps, a styptic pencil)

that he hoped might communicate the kinds of things he’s prepared for

(or maybe some of the things he’s _not_ prepared for, yet

(but he can learn)))

as she takes it back to her room, and his ache of anxiety and longing is so _physical_ that he can’t help bouncing his foot, and even though she’s only been gone for a second, calling out after her.

“Hey Simone?”

“Yeah?”

“Dyou have any, like—preferences? For, uh. How you want me to be?”

She emerges from the bedroom and raises an eyebrow. “Hmm. Not sure. What are my options?”

Brian scrunches up his face, thinks. “Uh, well. Scared shitless should be easy? Or I can do…innocent and shy? Bratty and stubborn? I can be really really sorry, or I can not be sorry at all. I can try to hold still and be quiet—I’m trash at it, honestly, but then you can let me have it for that—or I can like try to fight you. Um. What else. I can act like I know I deserve it? I can bargain with you? I can…”

“Wow,” Simone breathes, and she’s

(beautiful)

very close to him now, and unbuttoning his shirt. She and Pat look so alike, in this moment—tall and thin and angular, dark hair, pale skin, gaze focused and intense and sweet and… _hungry._

She’s talking, though, and he tries to focus, even as her hands start to tease up his chest. “No wonder Pat likes you. So versatile. I bet he’s tried as many of those as he possibly can.”

Brian blushes. “Yeah, we run the gamut. I’m kinda a theater slut so I like working a plot. Pat likes more improv. Naturalistic stuff. Both are good, though.”

“Love it,” she strokes his now-bare chest. “You’re turning me on, kiddo. _God_ I want to hear you beg.”

Brian lets his mouth quirk, and then closes his eyes. He can imagine her—what was it she said—

(fucking him black and blue)

“Oh please _, please_ Simone—it h-hurts— _please…_ I can’t—t-take any more—”

“You _minx_ ,” she smacks him. “It’s _obscene_ how you can do that, you hot little faker. All right. Begging and crying your sweet little useless tears for me, tonight, thanks. What should we do for Pat?”

Brian ponders. What _would_ Pat like. He likes…a _lot_ …

(all Brian’s stupid ideas go over smashingly, as do Brian’s daring attempts to guess at his favorites)

but what can he get out of Simone that Pat never gets with just them together? She’s fucking _talented_ , and it’d be a waste to just do what they normally do. She’s special.

“Hmmm. I think the more ruthless you are the better he’ll like it.”

“Oh? Daddy not hitting you hard enough?”

“Not that,” Brian says, “Although hit me just as hard as you please, ma’am. I just mean—you’re really good—you’re really _confident_ —sometimes he gets nervous. He cares a lot about not making me upset. Not going too far.”

“I get you,” she’s touching him all over his chest, tweaking his nipples. “Are you sure this is for _Pat_ , though? Or does your hot little ass just want to get _real_ fucked up and you’re using me to do it?”

Brian blushes.

“I—”

“I know your kind,” she teases, stroking him. “It’s okay. Pat’ll like it. He likes me to be a real mean bitch. It’ll be fun, to pretend I don’t give a fuck about you.”

She kisses him on the face, a few times, pulling at his lips.

“Just between you and me, though, I find you quite charming. You’re a fucking gorgeous funny filthy little slut who likes to fuck. Who could resist that?”

“Thanks,” Brian says shyly. “I try.”

“I can’t wait to blow your horny little mind and get you shaking so bad you forget how to beg for mercy,” Simone whispers in his ear, pushing his legs apart, pulling at his dick.

There’s a knock, and Simone doesn’t even stop as Pat lets himself in, smiles at their casual intimacy

(it’s such a _warm_ smile, half-proud and half-affectionate, like Brian is his spoiled puppy and Simone is unable to resist petting him on the street)

and moves around the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“Hey, P-pat,” Brian says, and the shiver is only because Simone is mouthing at his nipple

(she’s so _forward_ , which Brian likes, how the feeling is sharp and pleasant and really too intense)

“What crazy shit are you kids up to tonight?” Pat asks, eyes sparkling, as he watches.

“N-nothing much,” Brian lets Simone lick up his chest, tongue at his neck. “Simone’s gonna be a little mean to me. If that’s okay”

Pat’s eyes narrow. He’s looking hard

( _too_ hard)

at Brian’s face. It’s difficult, to keep his expression neutral, when Simone is—

“Out with it, Bri.” Pat drums his fingers on the counter. “It’s not just that. What’s in your dirty little mind.”

Brian just looks away. “Nothing.”

“Simone, what are you plotting?” Pat approaches, eyebrows raised, pulls her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me your secrets, if it’s supposed to be a surprise. But he has that _look_ he gets when he has a filthy idea and he wants me to rip it out of him.”

It’s embarrassing, how red he gets, when Simone looks up at him, puts a finger on his neck.

“Well now I’m curious,” she says. “What’s on your mind, pet. Besides getting some new bruises.”

Brian wiggles out from under Simone, off the chair, as if to slip away. He knows he won’t get far.

Pat is there, looming over him, catching his wrists. He carefully presses Brian into the wall and pins them over his head.

“What are you thinking, baby boy.”

Brian’s blushing fire, but says nothing. He can feel Pat’s gaze, warm and indulgent, and Simone circling, rapt. She strokes a hand down his chest, presses his hip inquisitively. “Did you want something else, darling?”

“No,” Brian says, and dips his head. He knows they’ll make him—

“Lift his chin, Simone,” Pat says. He steps back, but keeps his hands against the wall. “He’s lying to you.”

Simone slides between them, presses herself against Brian’s body, forces his chin up. “That’s a dangerous game, pet. Keeping secrets.”

“I’m not—” Brian pants, as she sucks on his nipple again. “Not a—secret—just a—th-thought—to get me into the headspace—”

“He’s got a character,” Pat explains, kissing Simone’s head. “Whatever you talked about doing, he’s got something in his mind to help him do it. Who you are. Who he is. Who I am.”

“Oh really,” Simone looks at him with such interest, that Brian thinks she really _might_ want to play—even their silly little games. Her nails catch on his skin and make him sigh. “Who’m I, then, baby?”

Brian feels shy

(it’s weird, he’s never shy with Pat anymore

(but Simone is kinda new and he doesn’t know how much she’ll like…))

and just says “You don’t have to...you can just be you.”

“You can,” Pat agrees, resting his chin on Simone’s head and squeezing Brian’s pinned wrists. “He can just act it out in his head. But trust me, he’s picked something out for you.”

“I wanna hear it,” Simone says, and her voice has a note of warning.

“Okay okayokay,” Brian says in a rush, because this one’s a lot, but he has to get it out. “I just—since we talked about—you being mean—I was thinking…”

 

 

 

 

It takes Simone and Pat a few minutes of conferring to get ready, while Brian showers. Luckily, costuming is pretty easy on this one, and they’ve got it covered. A few private notes, and then, _off they go_.

 

 

 

 

 

Pat knocks first, then calls out at the same time, because he doesn’t want to be standing in this hallway wrenching this whore around by the wrist for much longer than he has to. If he tries to bolt again it’s gonna have to get nasty.

“C’mon, Simone, I got somethin you’ll be interested in!”

“I’m fucking busy, Patrick,” Simone screeches from inside.

“It’s worth it!” he shouts, and then gives a glare that says _you better make sure it’s worth it._

The kid just looks down at his feet.

“Fine,” she pulls the door open. “Goddammit—get in here, quick.” She looks Brian up and down, fast, then looks back at Pat without interest. “I’ve got enough new blood, Pat, we can’t take in every goddamn skinny junkie who catches your eye.”

“He’s not new,” Pat says. “He’s good. And look at him—”

He wrenches up Brian’s head by the hair, presenting it to Simone for inspection. She looks a little closer, squints. Shoves a finger in his mouth to look at his teeth— _a nice touch_.

“Hmm. He’s pretty enough. But I can’t waste time training someone who’s just gonna go running home to mom in a few weeks. I don’t think he can take it.”

“I seen him around the block a few times. I think he can take more than he looks.”

“Look mister,” the kid says, with a scowl. “I said your friend could watch for twenty bucks, so if the deal’s off just let me scram, yeah? Or she can leave and let’s get going. I ain’t got all night.”

Simone snorts and rolls her eyes.

“Don’t smart off,” Pat shakes him. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re talking to. This is a _job interview_ , you little cocksucker. Wouldn’t you rather get some nice, clean paying customers than suck dicks in some ratty alley and get ripped off half the time?”

Brian turns his head to Simone, and though Pat can’t see the expression, he imagines it’s probably one of cautious interest, because her expression catches on him playfully.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“What’s it to _you_?”

 She backhands him, hard, dispassionately, and he swears.

“Manners.”

“Brian.” His voice is a little nervous, now, as if he’s only just realized he’s alone with two people who definitely don’t mean him much good.

“Good. I’m Mama Simone, and I’ve got work, if you can take it. But I need some proof, first.”

“I don’t work for free,” Brian says cautiously. “Ma’am.”

“You’re not a _complete_ idiot,” she nods sharply. “I’ll give you $500 for the night, if you let me put you through the paces, then if I like you, you can set your rates later. You can’t work for under a grand, though, you’ll piss off the other girls by stealing their customers.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” the kid softens immediately in Pat’s grasp, like he’s weak in the knees. “Fuck me, ma’am, you can do _anything_ to me for that much.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she smiles wickedly, and strokes his chin. “Patrick _does_ have a good eye, much as I hate to admit it. Let’s say we’ve bought the night, then.”

Brian nods his agreement, and Pat finally lets go of his wrist. Simone leads him off to the bedroom solicitously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian finds it incredibly _hot,_ the way Simone strips off his clothes unceremoniously, like he’s a piece of meat. She looks at everything with her critical, cold eye. She inspects the bruising on his hips, the hickeys, the marks

(from Pat’s fingernails)

that claw down his side.

“Not exactly pristine,” she murmurs.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he dips his head.

“It’s a good sign,” she pats him. “Maybe Patrick is right about you. Okay. So here’s how this is gonna work, Brian. Mama Simone’s going to fuck you a few times, and do a couple other things too. You’re gonna listen up and do whatever I ask, all right?”

“All right.”

“Some of my clients get a little rough, because they know my girls are good. They can take it. If you don’t want to handle that, or if you’re gonna give me more sass, or you break down halfway through, just take your $20 and get the fuck out right now.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, heart thrilling its beat. (Oh, she’s good. Incentive.) “I can be good.”

“Good boy.” She smiles wickedly, and glances at Pat. “Now, usually, Patrick gets a little referral bonus, when he finds me someone good. But I think this time, Patty just wants to fuck you. So maybe we’ll skip the cash, Pat, and you get to stay and play?”

Pat ducks his head, but nods. “Yeah, all right. Look, a man’s got needs.”

“I thought so. I’m gonna go get in something comfier. Patrick, have him suck your cock for a while? And then go ahead and start fucking him. I’ll be back in a minute.”

It’s cute, when Pat blushes at how straightforward she is

(he recovers quickly

(probably because Brian’s already on his knees and reaching for his belt)).

“Fucking watch yourself,” Pat shoves him off, hard. “I don’t want some rush job.”

“Sorry, mister,” Brian breathes innocently, and folds his hands. “Just trying to follow orders.”

Pat growls at him, jerks him by his hair. “Open your whore mouth and don’t fucking move. Keep your hands down.”

The blowjob

(it’s not much of one, too sloppy and too distracted as it gets started rough and fast)

puts tears in Brian’s eyes. He can sense Pat’s enjoyment of his little guttering sounds, and tries not to hold back, letting him have whatever he wants with limp enthusiasm.

Simone returns at some point

(presumably wearing something new

(not that Brian can look up))

and quickly she’s behind him, and he feels something around his neck that makes him jump.

“Shhh,” she whispers in his ear. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve just got a few things for later.”

As he continues to keep his jaw open, blurry-eyed and somewhat occupied, he feels her buckle the leather around his throat. She follows it up with something that slides on his wrists and ankles, little padded leather cuffs that feel tight and firm against his skin.

He has to close his eyes when she hitches the cuffs behind his back to the ring on his neck, and Pat pulls back to look down at him fondly, rubbing his own spit off on his hair.

( _Fuck_ , these two go hard, when they’re together.)

“Looks good, Simone,” Pat murmurs. “He’s a natural.”

“We’ll see how he takes your cock,” she says conversationally. “Go fuck him on the bed for a minute.”

Pat yanks him up with a hand under his arm, and Brian tries not to stumble. He’s leaned over the bed, ass up, and fidgets for a minute with the new restraints. They hold firm, but not painful. Not cutting into him, yet, just reminding him firmly where his place is in this little scene. The collar, in particular, makes his cock thrill indignantly. 

The sound of Pat jerking himself is distinctive, but it’s Simone who touches him next. “Dyou want a spreader on him, Pat?”

“Not yet,” Pat grunts. “I’m tall.”

Brian squeaks, and Simone laughs. “Oh, our little whore knows what that means. It’s coming, honey, don’t worry. We’re gonna see _exactly_ what you can do.”

He has to concentrate to keep his hands from pulling too hard on his own throat, so he barely feels Pat lining himself up, pushing toward his hole. The cock just holds there for a second, teasing him, hot and dry and threatening, right on the edge of where pain will come.

“You’re not gonna—” he whimpers a little, “—without any—”

“What was that?” Pat teases, smacking him on the ass. “Can’t take me dry?”

“Please,” Brian begs right away. “It’ll be better—I swear—”

Pat laughs right away. “You’re a fucking whore off the street. I’m not fucking you so you bleed, you piece of shit. Just wanted to see you squirm.”

Brian ducks his head in shame as Pat draws away to find a condom and lube. Simone hoves into view, and she’s wearing a fucking _gorgeous_ corset, and looks in all ways dressed to fucking _kill_. “Use your mouth on my cunt, while we wait. Make it look good. I want to see your skills up close.”

It’s tough, to get his chin up high enough to do it, without any hands. It’s tougher, when Pat comes back, dripping wet and still hard, to shove insistently into his ass, not dry but not _nice_ , either. He can concentrate on both, on moving his hips in the right way to make Pat feel good without screaming in pain, on moving his tongue without straining his jaw, but when he does he tends to lose track of his hands, and forget halfway through that he’s choking himself, until Simone grabs his hair and pulls him off and slaps him and yells _pay attention you dumb cunt, if you pass out you’re less than useless_ and he goes back to holding up his arms high and getting fucked hard and choking on her wetness.

“How’s he feeling, Patrick?” Simone asks lazily.

“Good,” Pat says, shortly, but still a lot more calm than Brian’s frantic panting through his nose and gulping air and squirming under Pat’s strong hands. “ _Tight_. I could come.”

“Are you gonna? Or hold off.”

Pat sighs. “I don’t wanna. But he feels fucking _good._ ”

Simone grins. “Tell you what, Pat. Because we’re old friends. I’ll let you have one on the house.”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Pat smiles, and slaps Brian’s ass hard. “Get ready, slut, because I’m gonna make this one count.”

Brian _hmmmphs_ indignantly around Simone, and she laughs.  

Pat’s hands come _clawing_ down his back, and Brian has to give up on making a good show for Simone at all, because with Pat pounding into him it’s all he can do to not choke himself. He just makes grunting noises and lets himself rock easily into the thrusts, feeling every inch of Pat sliding in and out with _force_.

 _Fuck_ , if this is how they’re _starting…_

It’s not a surprise, when Pat comes—he can always tell, more or less—and he tries to arch his back and give some resistance, like Pat likes. The pulsing in his ass feels good against his prostate, but soon descends into a sharp ache that feels like getting fucked too hard, too fast, and too well…and knowing that probably more is coming.

“God, Simone, _thank you_ ,” Pat says earnestly, as if Brian hadn’t had anything to do whatsoever with the arrangement. “He’s fucking _tight_.”

“Let’s get something in there to keep him open, then,” Simone says, still not letting go of Brian’s hair, pushing his face into her. “Grab a good plug, will you? Something heavy.”

Brian shivers, which Simone can surely feel, against her.

“Don’t be afraid, honey,” Simone strokes his hair, although without letting go. “It’s gonna feel like a lot, but it’ll help you stay nice and ready for the next time you get fucked tonight.”

Brian shuts his eyes as Pat works in the plug, nice and slow. It’s big, but the stem is thin enough, once he stops moaning over the widest bulge

(which Pat fucks in and out cruelly, as always).

“You keep that in you, sweetheart,” Simone taps his cheek, once Pat moves away to wash up. “If it falls out, we gotta switch it for something bigger. You hear?”

“Mmmhmmm,” he agrees quickly, because he still doesn’t know if he’s allowed to stop sucking.

“Ready for something more challenging?” she coos at him, brushing away the wetness from his eyes. “Let’s flip you around.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s incredible, to see Brian locked spread-eagle on the bed, ass full and mouth pried wide open around a ring gag. He’s got his eyes closed, as if he can’t quite bear to face the situation—how open and vulnerable and helpless he is, how well-fucked and well-tied. Simone has _some_ wicked idea in mind, that’s for sure, judging by the way her face looks and how she’s looking at Pat reflectively.

“You want a chance to make him come?” she asks Pat politely.

“ _Yes_ , ma’am,” he answers, quick, looking with interest at Brian’s leaking dick.

“How you gonna do it? she asks. “Want to use your hands? I want to play with his nipples for a bit.”

“Sounds good,” Pat acquiesces, and seizes Brian’s dick eagerly; the kid _keens_ , open-mouthed, into the air and stifles himself when he hears how loud it is.

“I can shove something in there, if you can’t shut up,” Simone warns.

Pat watches Simone for a second, as she bends elegantly over Brian’s chest and starts lapping at his pink nipples. She’s beautiful—naked ass, tight black corset—and barely gives any preamble at all before she’s sucking and biting quite fiercely. Pat can _see_ how hard her teeth are raking against his tender skin, how she’s panting dark hickeys into his chest, just from the tortured expression on his face and the gasps of unstifled sound. He makes sure to synchronize his hardest pulls with her worst tricks, to pump hard when she is _biting_ down on him.

“You really want him to feel it, huh?”

She runs a nail along a bright-red areola. “Oh yes, darling. I want to get all the blood I can to these sweet little buds before I clamp them.”

Brian sobs. Pat hasn’t had nipple clamps on before, but he knows Brian has, and he wonders if it hurts more after all this. He’d bet it does, by how anguished Brian looks—or maybe it’s just that Simone’s grabbing them hard and _twisting_ so fiercely that his back arches up and then hitches from the way it makes the plug jump in his ass.

“You like that idea, hmmm?” she murmurs at Brian, flicking with her thumbnail. “Suck on these little nips hard and then clamp them up tight?”

The hitching breaths are getting Pat’s dick interested again, and he needs to focus on getting Brian to come, somehow. He renews his ministrations with vigor, using a free hand to twist the dildo in Brian’s ass and make sure it rubs up against something that makes him squeal.

“You are _so_ loud,” Simone scolds disapprovingly. “Pat, after you jerk him off, go stick something down his throat. Your balls, a dildo, whatever. I just need him to shut up while I finish this.”

“Roger,” he says. Brian bucks up—as much as he can with Simone pushing down on his chest—and then weeps at the feeling of the plug jumping from the inside. He’s begging now, for something, but it’s impossible to tell around the ring, and with Simone sucking at his chest so fiercely.

It takes finally a particularly hard tug, and a wiggle with the plug, and Brian’s cumming hard all over Pat’s hand and making a little half-cry half-shriek that he’s unable to control. Pat immediately circles back up to Brian’s head, and shoves his fingers, sticky with Brian’s cum, down his open and willing throat. The kid moans as Simone continues to suck and bite without pause, ignoring his orgasm completely as she seeks her prize.

“Clean me up, whore,” Pat directs, when Brian just lies limply.

The tongue licking up at his fingers through the gag is unenthusiastic, and interrupted by sobs and gasps whenever Simone pulls hard.

“We’re almost done with the vanilla stuff,” Simone says presently, when she raises her head and sees Pat wiping come aggressively over Brian’s face. “He’s done okay.”

“What now?” Pat asks deferentially, leaning back.

Simone cocks an eye at him. “Go clean up while I get him how I want him.”

“Great,” Pat says, slipping off the bed, and tweaking the kid’s nipple for good measure as he leaves. Brian moans desperately. “Don’t worry, babe, she’ll take care of you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian’s overstimulated and feeling _crazy_ , as Simone comes at him with her next vicious trick. He hopes she’ll let something loose—his ass, his mouth, his hands—but instead she’s just clamping something down on his nipples and screwing it up tight. He can’t help but scream, because they’re so tender, and it’s so much, and he _just_ just came, and he can’t bite his fist or his tongue or do anything other than make guttural little sounds of pain.

“Shut the fuck up,” she scolds. “Be a good little whore. These aren’t anything.”

They _feel_ like something, though, when she snaps them on, and they feel _worse_ when she attaches some sort of chain that he _knows_ is going to have a weight on it eventually, he _knows._

“Good,” she says, pinching her handiwork. “Now. I’m gonna get you on all fours. So I’m unhooking everything, you flip over, and get nice and ready.”

He can’t really answer, but when she unhooks his arms and legs he drags himself up to follow her orders.

 _Think of the money_ , he says to himself, because he needs _something_ to push him through the horrible ache, of his chest, his jaw, his ass, in tandem. It feels like a miracle, that he can get on hands and knees on the bed.

She’s fucking _brutal,_ though, and just locks a spreader bar between his ankles without even asking. It stretches his hips wide, and she yanks his hands through his legs and locks them in too. He moans in fear, because his ass is up high and _so_ exposed, and he can’t move anything at all, and it hurts, it hurts, and he can’t even bite his lip to shut up about it.

“I told you I wasn’t gonna be nice,” she pats his ass. “I think you can take plenty more. _Plenty_ more. All this bitching and moaning—what’s that, really? I don’t wanna have to hear it. Your whore mouth probably has to have something in it for the rest of the night, doesn’t it? So you don’t annoy me.”

He weeps, futilely wiggling his fingers, trying to jerk away from her hands as she rakes nails down his oversensitive cock.

“You’re fucking _pathetic,_ ” she hisses, “blubbering like an idiot.” She yanks the bar so hard that she pulls him right off the edge of the bed, and he can’t catch himself at all as he goes collapsing into her thighs, feeling terrified and helpless as he falls. He doesn’t land hard, because her body is in the way, but he has no way to stop her from pressing him into an uncomfortable frog-legged position, with his back against the bed. It hurts to stay on his toes, but it hurts also to try and sit, with no way to uncurl his legs.

“I should lock you right here,” she says viciously, pulling on his collar. “I think I will. So you can’t sneak your hot little ass away and Pat and I can rest for a while. Why don’t you ask me not to.”

She rips off the ring gag and Brian is immediately sobbing and begging. “ _Please_ —please miss—I can’t take it—it’s—it’s _too_ much—please—”

She’s glaring at him as if not sure whether his begging is real or not, and Brian _deeply_ regrets calling wolf before. He’s fucked himself right proper, and that’s the truth. She continues to stare at him reflectively as she locks his neck to the bedpost, and he bursts into desperate, frantic tears.

“Stop _blubbering_ ,” she scolds with a few sloppy slaps. “You’re not even _half_ done. You’ll stay here as long as I want, even if that’s until morning, you understand? I can do whatever I want with you.”

Brian jerks his head up and down in teary understanding, but can’t hold back the wail when she pulls at his nipples again.

“Shut the fuck _up_ ,” she yanks. “You think I put these on here for _nothing_ , slut? I should kick you out right now with your twenty bucks and a slap on the ass.”

He bites down hard and sniffs, as she attaches something to the chain and the pain in his nipples intensifies. They’re _burning_ and twisting, with terrible unpredictability, as he shifts and tries to find some equilibrium that doesn’t make his hips fight him or choke himself into unconsciousness.

Finally, he realizes that Pat is watching them from the corner—when he arrived back in the room, Brian really can’t _possibly_ guess—and looking dark and horny and concerned. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m fucking surrounded,” she sighs in fierce exasperation. “Whose whorehouse _is_ this, Patrick? Would you rather I put _you_ through your paces again, instead? It’s been a fucking while, I bet you’re rusty.”

“Hey, hey,” he raises his hands in a gesture of submission. “Sorry, sorry. Just asking.”

“Don’t fucking ask. Get your cock over here and stick it down this whore’s throat. If he can make you come again, I’ll let him up, how bout that?”

“Good compromise,” Pat nods, pulling himself out. “But I dunno, I’m pretty worn out. Not as young as I used to be. Might be no point.”

“Then he’d better make it good,” Simone says, pinching Brian’s cheek so hard it makes him cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Simone goes off to do—whatever evil thing she’s got planned next—and Pat palms his dick, and contemplates Brian.

The kid’s a fucking mess, screwed up awkwardly at the foot of the bed, still hitching sobs, and his nipples are cherry red. His hair is so sweaty and messy that it’s almost impossible to see his face. Every time he fidgets the weights swing and he moans and the plug moves and he fidgets worse, and he’s really in quite a state. Hard again, too.

“She’s really working you over,” he comments, impassively, stroking himself.

“ _Please_ —” Brian begs, in a conspiratorial but desperate whisper. “Please P-Patrick—please let me up—she’s s-so—she’s _hurting_ me—”

It yanks at Pat hard, to hear him beg—it’s real and yet not-real, of course, as always with Brian, but he feels fairly certain that his part in this little melodrama is to relent, because otherwise why would Simone wander off. He sighs. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“ _Please_ , mister,” he cries. “Just a _little_ —I’ll make it good for you. I’ll let you fuck my face. You can come down my throat—it’s good, I know how to do it—please—let me up—”

Pat lets his fingers hesitate in temptation. “I can’t let you up, kid. She’ll skin me alive.”

“Then just—please—my nipples hurt _so much_ —”

“Hmmm.”

Pat draws a few steps closer, brushes his hand up his back. Brian cries and squirms “ _no—no—”_ until he realizes that Pat is grabbing at his arm, pulling up, letting him get a little weight off his legs.

“ _Thank you,_ ” he sobs, “but please _—_ have _mercy—”_

Pat knows what he’s begging for, and feels for the clamps with his other hand, unclips them. Brian moans in pain, but is instantly kissing any skin he can find in desperate relief.

 _“Thank you_ —thankyouthankyou thank you—god thank you—”

“I dunno how long you can crouch, kid, but it might take me a bit to come,” Pat says with a raised eyebrow. “Holding you up isn’t gonna be an option.”

“Fuck my throat,” Brian says desperately. He’s so worked up, it’s fucking gorgeous, and he’s figuring out how to get whatever he wants out of the next few minutes. “ _Hard._ It’ll feel amazing, I swear.”

“All right, kid. Don’t choke your stupid ass.”

They have to work a little to find the angle, since Brian has such limited range of movement and his muscles are aching besides. Still, soon Pat is driving down into Brian’s face, as requested, fucking deep into his throat and feeling the unbelievably hot and tight spasms of his gag reflex on the sensitive tip of his dick.

It’s fucking—

 _brutal_ —

and magical, especially when he pulls out and Brian is gasping and choking and covered in spit and tears and begging _“please, please—you’re close—I can do it—_ ”.

and he’s actually surprisingly close, considering how recently he came, and then—

“What the _fuck_ is that in your hand, Patrick?”

“Shit,” Pat swears, and the kid just sobs.

 

 

 

 

 

Simone is _furious_ , and Brian cowers

(as much as he can)

when she stalks over and shoves Pat aside. Thankfully, she doesn’t fuck with his nipples anymore, just unhooks his hands from the spreader bar, so he can sit

( _fuck_ he’s grateful, even though he’s afraid)

and leaves him alone, leashed to the edge of the bed.

She’s grumbling dangerously as she stands, and Pat is just hanging back, watching her. She grabs his ear to drag him by and yanks him over toward her desk, but Brian doesn’t have enough slack to peek around and see, or enough bravery to raise himself up over the bed and look.

He can hear, though, and it’s pretty easy to catch.

“You _forget_ yourself, Patrick,” she growls, and there are a couple of loud _smacks_ that are probably just slaps, and then a muffled _woof_ which means Pat got the wind knocked out of him, somehow. “You think just because you walk in here with some two-dollar whore we’re _partners_ , all of a sudden?”

“No’m,” comes Pat’s strangled voice, and Brian thinks he might have something around his throat—her hands, or something else, maybe.

“I’m gonna remind you who you work for,” she spits. “Lean over that desk and fucking _stay still_ if you know what’s good for you.”

Brian wraps his arms around his legs and trembles, listening. She gets… _something_ …while Pat positions himself. There’s the sound of him steadying his breathing.

“Suck on this,” she commands fiercely. “If you don’t want me to fuck you dry.”

Pat, presumably, obliges.

Brian hears something

(like a crack, but softened by a pillow)

and flinches. What kind of flogger is that? It sounds

(another crack)

_mean._

There’s some more shuffling, and then whispering, Simone into Pat’s ear, that Brian can’t make out. He wonders if she’s checking on him, checking on Brian,

(or whispering some threat so brutal that it’s not for Brian’s ears).

“Ready, Patrick?” she asks, before she starts

(he just says _mmhmmm_ with a sigh

(presumably because he’s still trying to suck on whatever she put in his mouth))

and Pat gets ten

(he can’t count them, but Brian can

(barely, they’re so _fast_ )

and they sound _bad_ , like she’s putting her whole arm into it, grunting with the effort and the speed).

It’s not a clear smacking sound

(something with multiple strands? like a cat-o’nine?)

and it makes fear race up and down Brian’s back. This woman is _dangerous_ , and he tries hard to stay quiet and still, and hope she forgets about him (for the most part).

When she’s done flogging, there’s more shifting sounds, and then a grunt of pain. Brian can’t _help_ but peek over the top of the bed, to find Simone driving a plug ruthlessly into Pat’s ass.

He’s never seen Pat like this before

(not that there’s a lot to see

(he’s just stone-still, leaning on his elbows on the desk, swaying as she fucks into him)

he’s got his head down, and he’s quiet

(he must be biting his lip, or _something,_ because she is fucking _brutal_ )

and his hands are clenched tight, and his hips drive against the heavy wood)

and if he’s enjoying himself, it’s hard to tell.

After a few minutes, she finishes, wipes off her hands on his back. Pat stands

(he’s got a collar on too, now, Brian notes)

collects himself with only a brief stagger, brushes his hair back from his face. He’s in pain, Brian can tell, but focused, quiet.

“Like what you see, slut?” Simone taunts Brian, because she’s turned around

(Brian forgot he’s supposed to be hiding).

 “I—I—”

He doesn’t want to say it

(but he _does_ like it)

so he just shakes his head and tries too look obedient.

“Get over here, you piece of shit,” Simone barks, and Brian almost jumps up, before he realizes that (a) he would strangle himself, and (b) she’s talking to Pat. “Unhook your little whore and let’s see how he handles some pain.”

Brian doesn’t flinch as Pat gets him loose, but he does struggle a bit when Pat sits on the edge of the bed and pulls him into his lap, grabs his hands, pulls back his arms. He _doesn’t_ want to be tied up for this

(his legs are already stretched wide from the spreader bar at his ankles)

he can handle his arms, he can hold still

(like Pat)

or at least he can _try._ He struggles and whimpers.

“Are you _really_ gonna be difficult, right now?” Pat murmurs, trying to subdue him. “You’re gonna make trouble for yourself. For me.”

“Damn right he is,” Simone says, shaking her flogger. “Will he hold still, or should we tie him down?”

Pat is squirming behind him

(still hard)

trying to get comfortable with the pressure in his ass, and takes a moment to answer.

“If you’re gonna—” Pat pauses, as she brushes the strands of her flogger across Brian’s chest

(he flinches so hard Pat nearly loses his grip)

“—do that, we probably have to tie him.”

“I see,” Simone says cuttingly. “Well. I have an idea, then. Hold your slut tight, Patrick.”

“I’m not gonna like this,” Pat murmurs in Brian’s ear.

Simone blindfolds Brian first, which makes him bite his lip. It’s simple, but effective, more intense

(and honestly, it was almost at fever pitch before, anyway).

Then she pulls his hands in front of him

(he knows better than to fight _her_ )

and locks them together, with the cuffs, pulls on the chain, pulls it up and over his head, so his elbows point up high and he’s so pathetically exposed, again

(he sobs, as she fastens it to something

(he thinks it’s just his collar again, for a second, but—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat chokes, as Brian pulls experimentally)).

“Be a good boy,” Simone flicks Brian’s nipples. “You don’t want to strangle your benefactor, here, do you? He’s the one who’s going to give you your cash.”

Brian sobs and nods, wrapping his fingers tight around Pat’s collar, so he doesn’t flinch and wrench his arms away without trying to.

Pat is kissing the back of his neck gently, stroking his sides, his belly, his forced-open thighs

(his fingers especially gentle whenever Brian flinches)

and Brian can feel his back pinning Pat’s erection tight behind him.

“Now, let’s see what you can take. Pat’s gonna keep you nice and quiet, hmm?”

“Yes’m,” Pat agrees, slipping a firm hand over Brian’s mouth, while the other hugs his hips gently.

It’s good, that the hand is there, because Simone

(is _evil_ )

doesn’t give any fucking warning, before she’s smacking at his chest

and he screeches into Pat’s fingers like a wounded cat.

It’s not _objectively_ very hard, he doesn’t think

(but he’s literally never been less objective about anything in his life)

but it burns like fire, and she doesn’t pause or let up or establish any kind of rhythm whatsoever,

just slapping and teasing and stroking with abandon.

Whenever he makes some particularly loud noise, she makes a _hmph_ sound, and Pat reconfigures

(his hand can’t stifle _all_ the sounds Brian’s making, but he’s trying)

and there’s a pause, and then she’s pressing her fucking awful fucking fingers onto his dick

and _stroking_ him and _sucking_ on his nipples fiercely

(it’s _worse,_ worse than the hitting, because of the stroking)

and she scrapes her teeth along them and Brian knows he’s bucking so hard and fighting so it _can’t_ be good for Pat, although he tries tries to stay aware enough to keep his fingers, if nothing else, obedient to his stupid will.

There’s a longer pause.

 _“She’s gone to get something,_ ” Pat whispers, lets a hand off his mouth, and Brian flinches because he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble. “Are you okay?”

He can’t say anything at all, but at least he doesn’t say _no_ , and then she’s already back in the room

(he can tell by how Pat _tenses_ )

and she’s talking to him, though he can’t really hear her for a minute.

“—ink, slut?”

He tries to stay very still, and quiet, and not wriggle anymore, or do anything else wrong.

“Did you _hear_ me?”

Brian sobs, because he knows that was a question, and he knows it was for him, but he didn’t, he didn’t—

“She asked if you want something to drink,” Pat murmurs in his ear. “It’s a thing she does. You can say yes.”

“ _Yes_ , ma’am,” Brian gasps, not so much because he’s thirsty

(although he is, actually, maybe from all the crying)

but because he needs just—a little— _something_ —

from her—anything from her—any scrap of kindness—

he’s busy forgetting where he _is—_

then someone is pressing a glass of water up to his chin.

“Drink, baby,” she says, softly. “It’s okay. Slow.”

He lets her tip his head back

(she’s gentle)

and give him some water. He takes it in small doses, a little at a time, not rushed, not forced.

“ _Thank you,”_ he gasps, pulling his chin away, when he’s done. She strokes his hair.

“You’re a pretty thing,” she says, gently. “So good for me. Everyone’s gonna like you. You’ll be such a sweet little whore. I can see you making good money, just fucking and sucking. Maybe you’re not cut out for the nasty clients, anyway. Not everybody is. Maybe we just cut your cash in half for the night and leave it here, hmm?”

Brian knows

(when she strokes down his face with a cool, wet fingertip)

he _knows_ he’s being baited,

but Simone’s got his fucking number, all right, and he’s sliding back down to Earth, and he doesn’t _want_ to, not _yet_ , so he turns his cheek and catches her finger in his mouth, for a second.

“I can take it,” he says, and his voice isn’t rough

(like Pat’s voice gets)

it’s whiny and sparse and airy, but it’s just as _desperate_

“ _please_ , Mama Simone, let me show you. I want it all. I’ll be good.”

Pat sighs into his hair.

 

 

 

 

 

Pat isn’t surprised, when she puts the clamps on Brian again—

although he’s relieved that the kid’s disentangled from his neck at the time—

when she’d touched ice to the sore little pink buds Brian _screamed_ and jerked so hard that Pat choked out a curse and it fucking _hurt_ the kind of _not good not good very_ _bad_ hurt that made him raise a hand and signal yellow—

she’d shot him an apologetic look for that, unattached Brian’s hands—

it’s fine, though, now, although he doesn’t relish the explanations he’ll have to make up for the bruise across his neck. Brian will think of something.

Brian’s still keeping his arms up, fingers tangled in Pat’s hair—

he doesn’t know how long that’ll last, though, with the weights back on. Brian is panting, flinching each time Simone teasingly smacks at his thighs, his chest, and then moans in pain when the weights swing. 

Pat kisses his neck, gently, and tries not to grunt in pleasure—

which is hard, when every twitch Brian makes on Pat’s lap grinds him into his dick—

and grinds the plug further into his ass—

it’s fucking _devilish,_ how she’s engineered this little predicament—

she’s pushing Brian harder than he ever has, harder than he’d dare to, and if he was in his right fucking mind he’d probably be stopping her—

but it feels so fucking _good_ , when Brian bucks up against him and gives him the friction he needs—

when Brian scrabbles for purchase on the floor, legs spread obscenely far apart and shoves back onto Pat’s lap for stability—

“I think you could come like this, Patrick,” she says slyly. Her eyes are lidded and dark and _fucking hell—_

she’s got the little chain from Brian’s chest in her slim hand—

Brian’s choking desperate thank-yous at the relief of weight because he can’t see and he doesn’t _understand_ —

he doesn’t understand that she’s going to—

“ _Simone,”_ Pat chokes, because is she really—going to make him—

“ _Patrick_ ,” she mocks, pulling ever-so-slightly. “How close are you, my dear.”

He breathes a few short breaths. Assesses.

“Close. Ma’am.”

“Good boy. Can you come just grinding on this little whore, do you think?”

Pat closes his eyes, red with shame, but says. “Yes.”

“Wonderful. That’s your job, then. And Brian?”

The kid can’t say fucking anything, though. He’s just whimpering.

“Brian. Listen to me, sweetie. I need you to listen, okay?”

“…. _okay_ ”

“Good boy. Pat’s gonna hold you very tight, okay? And Mama Simone’s gonna take these clamps off.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Brian gasps out, voice and body trembling, because he doesn’t understand—

 _“Christ,_ I’m going to hell,” Pat murmurs in lusty despair, and puts his hand firmly over the kid’s mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

Brian

is _so grateful for Pat oh my_ GOD

(it hurts it hurts it hurtsssss it’s slow and _hurts_ )

he can tell Pat must be

shutting him up

(a hand a hand (he realizes) with a hand)

because his wails are muffled when they reach his ears

he’s _so fucking grateful so grateful_

that he doesn’t

have to think about not screaming

( _fuck_ )

or how to hold his body

(tight against Pat’s)

or how good he’s being

(Pat’s whispering that he is

(his voice is ragged and hot like he gets when…))

when she pulls pulls pulls pulls pulls _fuck how can it take so long dear god how can it take so long to pull them off_ she’s still pulling he’s pulling also she’s pulling he’s pulling he pulls harder _please_ pull harder _please god_

Pat bucks against him and gasps and Brian is so grateful

because maybe she’ll

(if she’s feeling merciful)

stop pulling when Pat’s done or at least

(at _least_ )

pull harder and less slow and _god_ it’s only Pat’s arm that’s keeping him from

yelling so hard the neighbors

would certainly

hear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he’s done Pat’s instantly ashamed _—_ which is neither useful nor unusual.

(He’s also _messy_ , which is embarrassingly also common.)

But _Simone—_

isn’t done—that crazy bitch—

even now that the clamps are finally off and she’s soothing sore nipples with her hot, vicious tongue. Brian’s quieter now, although he’s still flinching and moaning so much at her attention that Pat doesn’t trust it—considers wrapping his hand around the kid’s mouth again, clamping his mouth shut—

the only thing that stops him is the fear that the kid’s going to have some _wicked_ fingermarks on his chin, tomorrow, and it can’t be good to make them worse—

“I want to fuck you, baby,” she’s whispering, licking into Brian’s collarbone. “Can I? Say yes, pretty boy, _please_ say yes, say yes for Mama.”

Brian’s sobs have gotten dry and hopeless, but he nods, even though he can’t possibly know what she even means, when he’s in a state like this.

She’s up and finding her strap-on—the one that she likes, purple, with the vibrator—getting it seated secure on her hips—

she’s going to _destroy_ him, Pat realizes, and Brian is _his_ responsibility now, because he’s far too far gone to say no to anything, absolutely anything she asks of him—

Pat decides they need to be face to face, for this to work—

he pushes Brian up, a touch, to flip him around—he forgot the spreader was even, there, honestly, and the kid almost falls straight down to the ground—he’s crying and begging immediately—hands and body desperately fighting to be touching Pat again—

 _“Simone_ ,” he asks, because he can’t reach, and she stoops down and lets his ankles free—

Brian’s hands aren’t free but it doesn’t matter, because as soon as Pat turns him around he throws them over Pat’s neck and crushes him into a kiss—they’re toppling onto the bed—Brian on Pat’s chest—

it’s salty, salty—sloppy, wet—the kiss moans into his mouth as Simone works the plug out and lines herself up—

“I’ve got you,” Pat soothes, as Brian mouths up toward his ear. The kid’s hair is stringy with sweat.

“ _Please_ ,” Brian keens, and his voice breaks pathetically, “Please, don’t— _don’t_ —”

Simone hesitates—

her eyes find Pat’s, and he sees that feeling that he feels _all the fucking time_ with this kid, that feeling of _oh fuck jesus christ has he been hating this all along and I’m a fucking monster_ —and he’s glad that at least this time, he knows what’s going on and he can help.

“He’s talking about the blindfold,” Pat grunts. “He needs it off. Keep going.”

She salutes and pulls it off his forehead; he’s glassy-eyed and absolutely fucking on another planet, but he can see Pat and that seems to be all he needs—to let his eyes unfocus again as she gently eases in to him.

“ _God_ ,” she breathes, as the motion drives her vibrator into her clit. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Brian is quiet but not still, twitching, moving his hips, shaking. Simone worms her hand between them to seize his dick hard—she’s _moaning_ , Pat realizes, with the joy of her orgasm approaching, and Brian just lets her have her way, lets her squeeze hard and wrench sounds out of him when she wants them.

She comes with a scream of joy—Brian hasn’t, yet—Brian barely seems to notice, just hangs limply off Pat and whimpers as she fucks him—

“Let me touch him,” Pat says, and Simone lets up enough that he can budge Brian up, get his hands around the hard cock, give him steady, even pressure like he likes and whisper in his ear.

“Come for us, sweet boy. You did so good. We need to stop soon, for you, but I think you want to come first. So come for me, love.”

Eventually, he gets the pressure just right, and Simone hits the right thing, and Brian does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian _knows_ he’s a fucking wreck, when he surfaces.

How long has he even been

(pressed into Pat’s chest, on the bed, Simone petting his hair)

like this, just curled between them?

They’ve been talking to him, he realizes, maybe for a while—

maybe he’s been crying a while, too? or maybe that’s from before?

he thinks he hears himself ask if he did good?

(he has, they assure him, kissing, so good, beautiful, perfect, just stay right like you are, you don’t need to do anything else, baby)

and he floats the hell away, because why not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He’s sleeping.”

“Pat…won’t we…wake him, if we whisper?”

“I don’t think so. He sleeps a little heavier than you’d think.”

“Did I fuck him up too much? He—he asked me…”

“I figured. I think he’s fine. This is kinda how he gets.”

“Are you sure? He cried, like, more than I honestly expected _…_ ”

“Yeah, he does that. Try to remember how much of a little shit he was being right before, if you can.”

“…true. I guess I did _ask_ him for tears.”

“Oh, did you? No wonder then. He was hamming it up a bit. He usually holds back a bit more for me.”

“He was _beautiful_. God. I could fuck him up all day. It’s like kicking a puppy. A really really sexy puppy.”

“…”

“Don’t look at me like that. Pat. It’s a _fine_ metaphor, okay.”

“Yes’m. How’d you enjoy yourself?”

“ _Shit,_ Pat, it was really fun. You’re great. He’s great. I wish I could chain you two in my basement and fuck you every day for a month.”

“…you don’t _have_ a basement, Simone.”

“Metaphor. It’s _literary_ , Patrick.”

“Yes’m.”

“…asshole.”

“You liked his little scene, then? He’s…I think he was nervous about it.”

“Dude that was the _best part_. He was so—wow. Wow wow wow. How he was just instantly _in_ it. And you…”

“…and me?”

“He gave you a role and you were just like. There. So _present_ , Pat. I don’t mind when you space. But I, like…”

“I get it. It’s a lot less pressure if I’m not totally checked out.”

“Bingo.”

“Yeah, he makes it easy for me. I get a lot less…uh…”

“Less…?”

“…”

“Uptight and emotionally repressed?”

“…no need to be a _dick_ about it, Simone.”

“Patty patty don’t be mad. You’re wonderful. You’re sexy and smart and he’s, like, so fucking _good_ for you, you hear? You look so much less _anguished_ about it all.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s _really_ different. Better. Although when you’re feeling _real_ naughty your cursing still has a Catholic flavor that, ahem, mama likey.”

“Christ, Simone.”

“Now you’re _teasing_ —stop it—don’t make me laugh—I’ll wake him up—“

“I think he might be awake, actually.”

“Shit. Sorry baby. Go back to sleep. You did beautiful. I’m very proud of you.”

Brian sighs in contentment and snuggles deeper into the blankets.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> \- M/M/F threesome with Pat/Brian/Simone,  
> \- rough oral sex and anal sex (including pegging),  
> \- derogatory language & nasty talk (including gendered slurs and slut-shaming),  
> \- sexual sadism/masochism (including flogging, slapping, buttplugs, stress positions, and lots of nipple torture),  
> \- pretty gnarly bondage (including collars, cuffs, gags, and spreaders),  
> \- some choking,  
> \- lots of crying, subspace,  
> \- (roleplay of) prostitution / transactional sex. 
> 
>  
> 
> possibly i went a touch too hard on this one? lemme know in comments.


	16. (((requiem)))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian needs a breather.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _let us dance beneath the moon / i'll sing to you 'claire de lune' / the morning always comes too soon / but tonight the war is over  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one has nothing to do with sex (sorry???!) but still several warnings as it has Big Emotions and Angst see end of chapter.

After _it_ happens

(Brian’s not able to talk about _it_

(which is unlike him (the not talking)))

Brian starts having nightmares.

 

 

The nightmares aren’t about Pat

( _it_ has nothing to do with Pat

(except that kinda everything in Brian’s life has to do with Pat))

but they fuck up his sleep for a while and Pat notices and asks him what’s up and

(uncharacteristically)

Brian is unable to tell him.

 

 

_It’s okay_ , Pat soothes, when Brian wakes up kicking and sobbing, _I’ve got you_ , and it helps even before Brian remembers, _Calm down babe,_ that the thing that he’s terrified of isn’t real, _You’re all right_ , and it doesn’t make a lick of sense either, _It’s okay._

After the first time, Pat doesn’t ask him what he’s dreaming about

(because he can’t talk about it

(although he’s not dreaming about _it_ , actually

(that would make too much fucking sense)

he’s dreaming about other random shit that’s usually not even half coherent))

and Pat just holds him, and strokes his sweaty hair, and murmurs that he’s fine now, and not to be afraid.

 

 

Pat starts to look worried after a week of this

(he was worried, probably, right away, but he’s good at not looking worried)

a week of nightmares and not-talking is a lot for Brian

and Pat starts to ask questions (not about _it_ (but around _it_ )) carefully, trying to figure out what to do

and all Brian can answer is shrugging because there’s nothing to be done for it because he is _not going to talk about it_ and it’s _no big deal anyway_ and _my brain is just being stupid_ and _no no no really, it’s really really not something you did_ and _its something stupid I just cant talk about it for some reason._

Pat doesn’t push in any way Brian can’t handle

(thank god)

but he asks if they can take a break from sex for a few days

(and just concentrate on sleeping and cuddling and staying asleep and not waking up and so forth)

and a break from sex is a bummer but Brian acquiesces gratefully

(and this is further uncharacteristic in and of itself (Pat is thinking this (Brian knows because his face)))

because sex with Pat is still fun and wonderful and exciting and perfect and he’s never ever ever going to stop

(ever)

but it just…

(…)

(…)

 

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Pat says, stroking his hair. “I know what you mean. It’s how your brain works. You literally dream about whatever happened in the day. It’s cool if you don’t want sex with me interlacing with your nightmares.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not. You’re wound up, kid. Relax.”

“I can’t. My brain is just—”

“Just…?”

“…just fucking _useless_ , Pat, I can’t explain anything, I can’t, and it’s killing me, fuck.”

“Been there.” Pat pets him. “Just talk about whatever, then. You like talking. Tell me something.”

 

 

Brian talks long into the night, every night, for a while.

He talks and talks

(not about _it_ )

and asks questions and makes philosophical statements and wonders about the meaning of life

(he really does care about things like that, although he also cares about whether soup can be a snack)

and Pat talks back at him some (and listens more) and fights his eyelids’ slow progression by constantly pulling his hand through his hair, and coughing himself awake, and saying _sorry,_ even though there’s nothing to be sorry for, even though Brian should just let him sleep, but it’s so hard, so hard to be alone and quiet and just lying there and waiting for dreams to come.

It’s weird how at night the anxiety is one way

(talking talking talking _please please_ I don’t want to sleep yet please please I’m not ready)

and in the morning it’s a different way

(“Are you okay in there, Brian?” “Fine” “You’re puking again?” “It’s not—I’m not” “I know, I know. Not really puking. Still sounds unpleasant, though. You need anything? Water?” “I can’t.”)

and both ways are really too much to ask Pat to deal with

(so he doesn’t ask (but Pat deals with them anyway)).

 

 

“I had a lot of nightmares when I was a kid,” Pat comments, one night when they’re talking, long after Pat is so drowsy that he could fall asleep any moment (but he doesn’t).

“Yeah?”

“I think everybody does. Has kid nightmares, I mean. Your brain is just way better at terrifying you.”

This is true, Brian thinks, and honestly he’d forgotten how fucking awful being a kid could be, how fucking thin the veil seemed between reality and dreams back then. “What’d you dream about?”

“Normal stuff. Drowning. Chased by monsters. Getting cancer. Going to hell. My mom dying in a fire.”

“…”

“I take it that that’s not normal stuff. Maybe the normie kids are having nightmares about book reports?”

Brian laughs. “You’re normal. I think. I just don’t remember—it’s been a while. When’d they stop?”

“Uh, maybe third, fouth grade? They didn’t stop exactly. It’s a long story.”

“Good. Tell me.”

Pat sighs. “I dunno if it’s a very interesting one. But all right. So I had these nightmares, so I really fuckin’ hated sleeping. I didn’t want to be afraid. And I guess I was stubborn, or something, so I just didn’t.”

“Didn’t go to bed?”

“Oh no, I went to bed. Actually, pause this dumb story for a second. Do you remember what your bedtime was, when you were a kid?”

“Uh….” Brian thinks. “I’m sure I had one when I was small. The first one I can remember is like, get off the computer by ten PM? when I was a middle schooler?”

“ _Fuck_ you running, mine was 8:30.”

“Seems a little early.”

“It was fucking _torture_. I went to bed and would just, like, be frozen. And I’d think about all the nightmares I’d had recently and how fucking awful they were going to be to have again, and just work myself up until I decided I didn’t want to sleep at all, and I’d pinch myself to stay awake and watch the clock until morning. I _know_ I didn’t sleep. I watched.”

“You didn’t get up and bother your parents?”

“Nah. I was too old for that.”

“I thought you were little? Like, littler than nine?”

Pat gives him a look. “Too old for sleeping with my parents. I wasn’t a baby. I was in _school_.”

“…and? Pat, I did that when I was, like, twelve.”

“Your parents let your gangly preteen ass take up a third of the bed?”

“Oh yeah,” Brian giggles. “And their bed was _small._ And whenever I would do it, Laura would get jealous and she would come too. I’m sure it drove them crazy.”

“Huh. Well, all right. No, I didn’t bug them. At least for a while. I started falling asleep in school.”

“In class?”

“Mostly. In class, on the playground. At lunch. On the bus. Just, like, everywhere. The school called my parents—fuck, I still remember, in second grade—they got called in for a conference about _sleep hygiene_.”

“Oof.”

“Yeah it fucking _sucked_ , because my dad was _pissed_ , and whipped my ass, and then my bedtime was 7:30 for a whole _year_. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Godwin, you meddling asshole.”

Brian bites his lip, because he wants to say _doesn’t sound like it was really her fault_.

“Anyway. So yeah, then my parents had to deal with that. They took me to a doctor.”

“A therapist?”

“No, just a doctor. Checked me over. I was fine. Nothing wrong with me. They did a sleep study, even. You ever done one of those?”

“Uh-uh. Do they just watch you sleep?”

“More or less. I thought it was funny, because it’s in like this big office building, and you go and open a door and then it’s like a _bedroom._ But anyway. I sleep fine under controlled conditions, I guess, and they just tell my parents maybe I have insomnia but they don’t want to give a kid ambien, so focus on winding me down and being supportive and limiting TV time and all that shit.”

“Did they?”

“They tried, they totally tried. They would sit with me, until they thought I was asleep. I would just wait them out. I’m pretty fucking stubborn.”

Brian doesn’t say anything, again, because the thing he wants to say will make Pat shut up.

“Anyway. I finally figured it out, kinda. My dad would tell me to count sheep, so I would try to do that.”

“Did it work?”

“Abso- _fucking_ -lutely not. I counted a _lot_ of goddamn sheep, Brian. I counted my fucking brains out. Do you know the highest you’ve ever counted?”

“…probably like a hundred?”

“Well I counted a _lot_ fucking higher than that. I got kind of sick of counting the same thousands over and over again so I started, like, putting a pin in it and counting higher the next night. Just to see how high I could get. I wanted to know if I could get to a million.”

“Did you?”

“I _thought_ I did, but yknow. Kids are stupid. I probably fucked up and missed a couple hundred thousand. Whatever. So I was concentrating pretty hard on counting, every night, and also not sleeping, and then it was kinda funny, but I’d fall asleep and I’d _still be counting_.”

“Did the nightmares stop?”

“Nope. But I had this epiphany. I can still remember it perfectly, okay, and I was a kid so don’t make fun of me for being stupid. I was dreaming about something terrible—”

“What?”

Pat stops short.

“Sorry. You don’t have to say.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Car accident. And no, I’ve never been in a car accident. I probably saw some shit on TV.”

Brian nods, as if to say _go on_.

“Anyway. Fucking awful dream, car accident, mom screaming, blood everywhere, and I’m in the back and I can’t get my seatbelt off and my dumb little ass is just _counting_ , the whole time. And I had this epiphany. I was like, why the fuck am I counting. I only count when I’m going to sleep. Goddammit, I must be asleep.”

“You woke up?”

“No. Just realized it was a dream. Which fucking _really_ helps, by the way. I mean, dreams can be pretty intense or whatever, but that feeling of—like your brain gives up asking questions—and just accepts whatever crazy fucking reality it’s making for itself—that was really bad for me.”

Brian nods. He knows this. It is also bad, for him.

“I couldn’t do it every night. But about half the time. If I focused. It gave me something to work at. Which made me feel a lot less scared. When the nightmare was shitty, I could just sit there and think _you’re asleep stupid_ and ignore them. Sometimes I even could get out of a nightmare and do something cool—like fly around or juggle knives or something—so I stopped pinching my stupid ass awake and just started sleeping. ”

“That’s _amazing_.”

Pat snorts. “Please don’t praise me for doing something that other every living human does.”

“It’s not the same. Nightmares suck. They _really_ suck”

“True.” Pat kisses Brian’s forehead, gently. “I’m sorry you’re having them, baby. They’ll go away. I promise.”

“I hope so. Thanks for staying up with me.”

“Sure thing, babe. You don’t have to do this alone. I’m no help, but I’ll be here.”

“Pat, you’re helping. _This_ is helping. Talking to me. When you’re so tired. I know you need to sleep.”

“Eh, fuck it. I’m a grown-ass man, no one calls my parents when I take naps at work anymore. Just shake me if I fall asleep before you, okay? I’m an asshole, but I don’t want you to be alone.”

“You’re not an asshole.”

“Mm.” Pat’s eyes are closed, but he’s playing with Brian’s hair, so Brian knows he’s still awake. “This story was too long.”

“Nope,” Brian lets his head be scratched with a sigh. “Not long enough. More stories.”

“You still don’t want to sleep.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“…do you want to try counting?”

 

 

 

Brian never talks to Pat about _it_

(except to say that _it_ happened between the subway and his house, so could they please walk the long way around for a while, even though that’s stupid hot outside)

but counting kind of works

and when Brian tells Pat the nightmares are better and he’s feeling more or less back to normal,

Pat kisses him and says _see, I told you it’d be fine_ , _kiddo. You’re tough as nails. Don’t be so hard on yourself._

Brian doesn’t say anything to this. It doesn't feel like it needs responding to. It feels like a secret, a prayer, an incantation for both of them, all of them, present and past.

              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNING: mentions of  
> \- traumatic experiences,  
> \- nightmares,  
> \- questionable parenting decisions & extensive discussion of childhood anxiety and struggles.
> 
>  
> 
> i think maybe if you just keep writing porn sometimes a plot happens guys im sorry


	17. - leap -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat gets got, and brian gets wet.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _now your legs were heaven your breasts were the altar / your body was the holy land / you shouted "jump" but my heart faltered / you laughed and said "Baby don't you understand?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um hey see end warnings but pssst if you can't stand reading about peeing or about continental philosophy then um SKIP IT.

Pat’s not into _that._ He’s not. He’d never.

But spend long enough around Brian—

and _god._

_damn._

_it_.

 

                                      

 

It’s innocuous enough, how it starts.

Shooting Unraveled is a fucking marathon, you see. Because Brian is an overachiever, and he always books three hours of time and shows up with five hours of research, and if they give up halfway then there goes continuity—

not that anyone _cares_ about the fucking continuity, but _Pat_ cares—

and Clayton at least somewhat agrees that it’s easier to just get it all in one go, and Brian says that the longer it goes and the more miserable he is the better. So whenever they shoot these beasts it’s always a goddamn endurance sport for all of them—Brian most of all—

They are _so close_ to done with this shit—

Pat’s grumpy and short-tempered because he just fucked up a good take—

Brian’s rumpled and flubbing lines all over and apologizing for it and getting more flustered—

Clayton gives a yawn, which is the most annoyance you’ll ever get out of Clayton—

and they’re just about to re-set, take four, when Brian waves a hand.

“I need a sec! Be right back.”

Pat can’t contain his frustrated sound. “There are _two_ sentences left, Brian,”

Brian rolls his eyes. “I _know_ , Patrick, I wrote the damn thing.”

“So can’t we just get _one_ clean take? Then we can all get the hell out of here.” His tone is curt, he knows, but he can’t help it—Clayton’s yawning again, and Brian’s tired because his sleep cycles still haven’t bounced back to normal really, and Pat’s missed dinner with a friend that he _rarely_ gets to see—

“But I have to _peeeee,”_ Brian whines.

“Christ, can’t you just _hold it_? It will literally take ten seconds.”

“Fine,” Brian huffs. “Re-set, then.”

It takes more than ten seconds—

maybe five minutes, all told, because fucking hell nothing can ever be easy—

but long enough that Pat forgets—

until they’re on the subway home.

He’s cranky and sullen and Brian’s oddly quiet and _extra_ fidgety, considering how fucking tired he is. Pat wonders, annoyed, if maybe he’s fucked up too much today, and he’s been such an ass that Brian’s going back to his old ways, to being afraid every time Pat gets a little pissed. He’s seeming _quite_ worked up about something, squirming a lot, looking kinda pained, like he needs to—

 _mary jesus and joseph_ —

“ _Brian_. Did you ever…”

He stops asking, aghast, halfway through, because it’s a stupid fucking question—they’ve literally been side-by-side the entire time—

Brian understands the half-question, it seems. “Nope.”

This is—did he—there’s no _way_ —because of—he _wouldn’t_ —but Pat has to ask—

“… _why_?”

—although he’s a little afraid he’s already figured out the answer.

Brian raises a bemused eyebrow. “You told me not to.”

 _Christ—_ Pat closes his eyes and—

“Oh don’t give me that,” Brian’s snort cuts him off. “I am _dying_ here, so if you’re not into it, just tell me I miscalculated and we’ll be cool. And if you _are_ into it, then _get over_ your hangups and get ready to tell me how proud you are of me for being sooooo patient.”

He’s fussy enough and direct enough to shake Pat out of the sharp descent into shame—

Pat opens his eyes and looks, really _looks_ —

kind of at Brian, who’s squirming and rocking on the balls of his feet—

kind of at himself—

and sighs, and says. “Well, _fuck._ ”

“Gotcha again,” Brian smirks.

 

 

 

 

They don’t do it _often_ , okay.

 

 

 

 

Just every now and again. Pat has to be in a particular mood. He doesn’t know what that mood is, exactly, but _Brian_ knows, that smarmy little fuck, and he’ll sidle up to Pat’s desk and look at the video Pat’s editing and ask a question and sneak his way into a conversation and wait until they’re right in the middle of arguing or working out a schedule or making some edits and then he’ll say, guilelessly,

_may I run pee, please?_

and sometimes, if he’s feeling it, Pat will say something like

_babe, it’s 1:05, you just got back from lunch, you can’t give me five minutes?_

and yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s fucked up—

Pat spends _plenty_ of time thinking about what a sicko he is, okay—

but when Brian’s little face crinkles in consternation and then he nods obediently—

it _does things_ to his sicko brain, things that Brian is _not_ ignorant of, so it’s at least half his fault.

 

 

 

 

It’s wild, how easy it is to push Brian around. Pat can tell Brian where to go to lunch with just one finger on his shoulder. He can raise his eyebrow a _centimeter_ and shut the kid up, even halfway across the room, even if he’s talking to his fucking boss. He can make just the littlest gesture, and Brian knows to come find him in the bathroom at work right away.

Of course, Brian _lets_ Pat push him around. That’s the whole thing. It’s not about putting the kid in pain—

okay, yes, fuck, except when it is—

but it’s not _always_ about putting the kid in pain. It’s about how he pushes Brian around, and Brian _lets_ him. Pat’s a sick fuck, but he’s _captivated_ by this. By having such a wonderful, talented, brilliant, creative, mischievous, lovely, bossy, clever, _beautiful_ human absolutely and entirely under his control.

Brian’s body is so _pliant_ when Pat gets to him—

he’ll have his mouth open and willing and his eyes on Pat’s face—

he doesn’t beg, at work, although he knows if he’s good enough Pat will take care of him.

Sometimes Pat comes in his mouth. Brian doesn’t even fucking _swallow_ without permission, just kneels there with his mouth open and Pat’s come on his tongue and waits for further instructions. It’s captivating, to run his finger over the little pink lip and feel Brian trembling as he smears it across his cheek.

Sometimes, Pat is more interested in touching Brian himself, in getting his cock out and stroking it until it’s viciously hard, not to satisfaction, not for Brian’s pleasure, just because it’s his, and he can.

Sometimes he just holds Brian dick for him, when he pees. That always takes a while—literal _minutes_ for Brian’s body to cooperate, because no matter how bad he needs it and how many silent beads of sweat roll down his sweet little forehead, penile anatomy has a certain set of priorities.

And _yeah_ , sometimes Pat makes Brian hold it, all the way home, and Pat fucks with him, because he's never even thought he was a good person, anyway, and also Brian  _lets_ him. 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Please,_ ” Brian whimpers, before they’re even in the door.

Pat stops, takes his hand off the key. Brian lets his face be touched, petted, right on the cheek. “Just a sec, babe.”

Brian bites his lip, whimpers again. It’s so fucking _adorable_. It’s his own fault, if Pat wants to hear that sound as many times as he possibly can.

They step in the house. Pat moves with predatory slowness, stripping Brian of his clothes. The kid doesn’t say a damn thing, just lets himself fidget and moan under Pat’s fingers.

Pat touches Brian’s thighs, because he knows that will get a whimper. “You put these on right after lunch, hmm? Like I asked.”

“ _Yessir,_ ” Brian breathes, as Pat strokes the lacey red panties, how they cut oddly across Brian’s dick.

“You’ve been so patient, baby. I want to make you feel good.”

Brian whimpers out a cry as Pat tickles him. “I can’t—”

“Don’t be silly,” Pat chides. “You’re a good boy. You’ll do whatever I want. Won’t you?”

The chin nods, in trepidation. His eyes are tearing.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, then. That’s what I want.”

 

 

 

Showering with Brian is always fun, but it’s special fun to pin him up against the tile and kiss into his whimpering mouth, to press a hand in his chest when the kid is fighting his body desperately and losing and crying in frustration about how he’s losing—

the fight for air, the fight not to come, the fight to hold it, the fight to be quiet, it’s all the same—

Brian would say it’s the fight between body and spirit

(he’s always talking about the human condition and about dualities and about the dilemma of mortality and about humanity’s elaborate, symbolic defense mechanisms against the tragic reality of our physicality)

but Pat just says yeah, it’s fucking _weird_ , the shit human beings are into. 

 

 

 

Brian can _always_ tap out, if Pat goes too far. Brian _can_ , but he rarely _does_. He’s not the kind of person who likes to get to the edge of the pool and dip in his toe and then pull back. He’s the kind of person who takes two deep breaths, laughs, and cannonballs.

It’s _transcendent_ , when he breaks away from Pat’s kiss with a sob and says _“I’m sorry, I couldn’t—_ ”

and his cheeks are wet with tears, and his panties are wet, and he lets Pat kiss apologies out of his wet mouth—all the feeble silly useless apologies for losing the fight with his body, for being bad and dirty and evil and mortal, for trying and failing to do what Pat asks of him, for spitting in the face of God—

“ _It’s all right, baby. I know you’ll be good next time.”_

 

 

 

 

“…okay, I definitely buy that Freud was into it, but _Kierkegaard_ , Brian?”

 “Not like _that_ —stop laughing at me—“

They’re cuddling on the sofa, later—much later—Pat’s drunk so that he doesn’t have to think about right and wrong and clean and dirty and what kind of person he is—Brian’s drunk so that he can think about those sorts of things _at length_ and then babble philosophy at Pat adorably.

“Oh my god you’re not even _listening_ —”

“I am! I am, I’m listening. ‘The possible and the necessary.’ I got it.” Pat smiles into his neck. “I am _kind of_ following you on the dialectical tension inherent in pissing yourself but I’m a little lost on whether the urine represents the finite or the infinite, here.”

“Oh _fuck you,_ I’m trying to make you _feel_ better, you filthy old man. Fine, work out the kinks of your Christian existentialism on your own time.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m listening. I get it. Philosophers are also some nasty fucks.”

“You’re not _nasty,_ ” Brian scolds. “It’s not nasty. It’s just a _thing_. Like anything. You see? Because, like, yes, it feels dirty, but only in the way that like, _everything_ that reminds you that you have a body is dirty. Because of the human condition. Of like. Bodily-ness. Which is like. Terrible and also sexy. So like. When you say you’re going to hell. What you mean is, like. The pleasure of the physical is worth it. Even though it implies the death of the mental. Which is good. Because like. Your physicality isn’t actually negotiable? So better to just go to hell. Embrace humanity. Et cetera.”

“You’re drunk, Bri. And I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. But I’m _definitely_ going to hell for how much I love torturing you.”  

Brian scowls. “ _Some_ of us are comfortable with our death drives, over here. It’s perfectly fucking natural. ”

“Uh-huh.”

Pat laughs, because he’s not great at philosophy—

but he knows he’s sold his soul to the devil—

and he knows he got the better deal.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC WARNINGS FOR:  
> \- pee fetish (specifically, like holding it in public/ wetting in private),  
> \- panties on penises,  
> \- work flirting and work fucking (in bathrooms),  
> \- talk about death & religion. 
> 
>  
> 
> dear author,  
> why is the piss chapter right after the chapter on love in the face of trauma? what a foul and awesome display. 
> 
> dear reader,  
> NOW WE ARE ALL SONS OF BITCHES


	18. (i’m a man in a trance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it_ comes, that night.  
> brian, meanwhile, tries to get what he wants. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _and you were no picnic / and you were no prize / but you had just enough pathos to keep me hypnotized / hypnotized_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little dark. please see endnotes, many trigger warnings here.

Brian wakes and listens.

It’s still, to a first approximation.

He doesn’t open his eyelids right away.

It’s not dark in Brian’s room (he has the lights on). His eyelids look misty red, when it’s so bright. He doesn’t like it (but he also doesn’t like lying in the dark).

Still, he wants to see, but only if…only if the room is empty.

He holds his breath and the sounds of breathing stop…do they stop?...they stop…do they…

…

…

 _…_ God _, it's_ here again.

 

 

 

 

When Brian opens his eyes, _it's_ there.

Slim, tall, sharp, pale _ghastly_.

“Why are you _here_ again,” Brian sobs, breath sweat-soaked, ragged.

The thing smiles — not every time, but this time.

 

 

 

 

“Still.” Brian’s body locks up before he can cry, the whimper catches in his throat, frozen forever there, maybe, by how his treacherous muscles jump to this thing’s will rather than his own.

He feels a hand pull back the blankets (god ( _god_ )).

“Why don’t you just sleep naked,” the thing murmurs at him, in dark amusement. “You know to expect me.”

Oh _god,_ he _can’t_ make Brian do that (can he?). His voice can’t call into the future and force Brian’s trembling fingers to undress, can he? He can’t—the glamour—it doesn’t— _does it_ —?

He bites the inside of his cheek, which is all he can do, while the thing undresses him.

Its hands are slim and smooth and confident and elegant and beautiful, which makes it worse as they flay back Brian’s clothes. Just shirt split open, tonight, exposing trembling chest. The fingers are so cold (and cruel)) like everything about this thing that haunts his nights.

The fingers still. “Hmm. What is—”

they grasp the tiny chain, around Brian’s neck, and he prays—

“— _pathetic_ ,” the voice hisses. Hand yanks, chain breaks, crucifix goes flying careless off,

(so much for an ounce of prevention)

and, still irritated, perhaps, the silvery voice barks _“Stand_.”

 

 

 

 

He’s tried to fight before, but there’s no use. When the thing tells him what to do, he does. He doesn’t even _want_ to fight, is the worst thing. He just wants to know that he can.

(Brian is used to obeying commands. He _likes_ to. But obedience freely given is not the same as _this_.)

The eyes are looking at him. Cold. Unsympathetic. Dark-rimmed, dark-pupilled, dark against pale skin. The hair drapes down, like always, smooth and dark. The feeling, when this thing looks at him, is—complicated—

(fear, yes, and alien lust)

the closest feeling he can compare it to is that he’s told a joke and the thing is not amused

(and it is a Prince, and Brian is a lowly jester

(or was, because you’re probably nothing anymore if you don’t have your head))

the second closest is a lamb at the threshold of a slaughterhouse.

The hands ghost over him—

(they’re beautiful hands, has he said that?)

pulling off the shirt entire, caressing his chest. If the fingertips are cold, why does the touch _burn_

(is this what latex feels like, to Pat’s skin?)

and feel like it leaves a trail of red, however light the touches?

The demon-thing peers into Brian’s eyes. He can’t look away, no matter what he sees there—but it’s always the same, what he sees. Rage. Desire. Boredom. It’s so aristocratic, really—a hunger for things that it has rarely been denied — that generations of its kind have been raised to believe it _deserves_ —

(things that devastate Brian’s soul, even though in the span of a thousand years it must be a dull diversion)

it matches the clothes, silk vest, old fashioned-collar

(Brian wonders when it died—

well, when it died the first time)

and it matches the easy, possessive, way that it pulls his hair back

(it’s barely long enough, to stay—stray strands immediately jump free, abandon ship, to tickle at his chin).

It strokes a finger down his bare neck and feels his pulsing futile fearful life beneath. Brian’s heart is beating hard against the cage of his chest—like it wants to break free, but perhaps it has given up on really hoping long ago—and now it’s just rattling the bars as hard as it can—

“Maybe I’ll take pity on you, tonight,” the voice says, with something like humor. The hands are petting him—stroking down his arms, his belly, his neck, his face, the small of his back. They don’t feel merciful. “Maybe I’ll let you fight back, hmm?”

Brian wants this so terribly, but how can he show it—there’s nothing he can do — no reason it should listen, even if he could request —

“I think I will. I’m bored, this evening. Your blood gets hot, when you tire of fighting, and it’s interesting.”

The fingers touch the center of his chest, and Brian finds he can close his eyes.

“I release you, tonight, pet.”

Brian sobs in desperate, anguished, gratefulness, as he strikes out with his fist.

 

 

 

 

The fight is brutal, sloppy, fast—

_not as fast as it could be, they have to stop twice, because getting thrown into furniture is sexy In Theory but you get bruises In Practice, and Pat is really, really shockingly good at fight choreo but not so good at hiding his wince when Brian slams his shins into something way too fucking hard twice in a row_

— it ends, the way it always was going to, with _it_ pinning him down and looking at him, the boredom eclipsed for a second by a spark of gloating triumph.

“Poor show,” it drawls, and licks up Brian’s chest, drawing from him a painful moan of hatred and desire. He tries to wrench his wrists out

(he can’t, the grip is bruising tight)

to buck his hips up

(he can, but the movement is obscene, grinding his hard cock up into the body above him)

but it doesn’t matter. The mind is free to fight, yes, but still his body is not free. At least now he can talk.

“Just _bite_ me, then,” he spits, trembling bravado. “Take what you want.”

“You’re done with your little theatrics?” the voice drawls. “Ready to submit?”

“What does it _matter—_ ”

“It doesn’t. I’ll have it either way. I just prefer you resigned to your fate. It’s appetizing.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Brian snarls, and struggles uselessly. “I’m not gonna make myself tastier.”

“You think you’re _special_ , don’t you.” The face is cruel and clever, like always. “That I’m coming to you for some reason, tormenting you. You’re wrong. There’s a thousand thousand others just like you, who thought they could resist me, and tried, and failed. I didn’t choose you for any particular reason, you know. You’re just alive, and hot, and your heart beats fear against me, just as all the others have.”

“Then why do you come _back_ ,” Brian sobs. “Go suck on Brad Pitt, or something. Let me go.”

“Never,” the voice says, fervently. “You’re _mine._ You’re my possession. I’ll never let you free”

“Then fucking _kill_ me,” Brian weeps, “Anything but this.”

— _it’s too much._

_Brian catches his eye and knows just before—_

_that look Pat gets before he safewords—guilt and terror—_

_fuck—Brian’s such a little drama whore_, _he knew not to go there, he just gets carried away— _

_“Honeybee, honeybee—Brian, I can’t—” Pat’s pulling off, and holding his face with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just can’t—”_

_“Pat—Patrick, Pat. Pat. Pat, calm down. It’s okay.”_

_“I’m so sorry.” Pat rolls off, away quickly. Brian scrambles up and seizes him in a hug, kisses into his temple. “I know it’s stupid. I just…”_

_“It’s not stupid, it’s literally what safewords are for. Here—stop—hold me instead—c’mon.”_

_Pat takes a shuddering breath as Brian entwines their limbs. “Sorry, kid. I’ll get over it in a minute. It just—you’re a good actor. You hit me in the gut, with that one.”_

_“Why?” Brian asks, although he’s pretty sure he knows._

_“ ‘cause I’m pretty fucked up, so I can get down with feeling up my unwilling consort and sucking your blood and taunting you and mind control and torture and all, but fuck, Bri, not killing you. I know you’re doing a thing but—” Pat shakes himself, hard, deliberately, like he’s shaking off a shadow, and it seems to work. “—but you’re too good at it, okay, and some things are just gonna kill my boner. Sorry.” _

_“It doesn’t hurt my feelings that thought of murdering me is a turn-off,” Brian says, cautiously. “In fact I think that’s a really good life decision. You don’t have to apologize for that.”_

_Pat snorts. “Thanks. I think we found one of those hard limits you’re always asking me about.”_

_Brian kisses his eyelids, which are slightly damp. “Okay. My bad. Won’t do that again. Should we stop?”_

_“No,” Pat’s eyes are closed in determination. “I don’t think so. But I need a little longer.”_

_“ ‘Kay,” Brian acquiesces, and slides himself so his head can be in Pat’s lap. Pat strokes his hair. They sit like that, for a minute, Pat stroking and Brian looking up and trying not to feel_

_(like a fucking disaster)_

_too bad about it. Pat’s breathing is steady now. He’s mastered himself pretty quickly. He looks—well, good, of course—a creature straight out of Brian’s dark twisted fantasies. He’d made so much less fuss about the outfit than Brian expected. He hadn’t bitched about the cravat, although he did refer to it exclusively as a ‘silky neckerchief’ just to get Brian annoyed (because (a) it’s not a neckerchief, neckerchiefs are for boy scouts, we can do boy scouts later, Pat and (b) it’s not even fucking silk). _

_He looks good—pale and dark and high-class and wicked and perfect—and frankly, the tortured expression that he succeeds in masking with well-practiced flatness—well, it also fits the bill. God, Brian thinks, what kind of fucking person am I, and he buries his head in Pat’s lap in something like honest shame_

_(which isn’t very common, for Brian)._

_“Can I ask you something, Bri?”_

_“Sure. Please.”_

_“Is it…” Pat scowls. “I don’t know how to fucking ask this. This is gonna be phrased wrong, so just deal with it if I fuck it up, okay. I’m trying to ask, is it a turn-on for you? Getting…murdered?”_

_The way that Pat asks this question, scared of the answer but also like he’s steeling himself to deal with either without being too much a dick about it, makes Brian faintly proud._

_“Not really,” Brian says lightly. “Just kinda said it. I say a lot of things in a scene, Pat, it’s all like riffing. Sorry. I should have workshopped this one a bit more. Known it would flip you out. I sketched it too fast.”_

_“I can’t do the ending, either,” Pat says suddenly. “I know I said I could. And it’s a good ending. Makes thematic sense. Real dramatic B-movie kind of thing. But I can’t. I’m really fuckin’ sorry.”_

_Brian reaches out for Pat’s face. “Please don’t be sorry. I…wasn’t super happy with the ending either, actually. It sucked. I’m kinda glad if we nix it. I’m embarrassed about it.”_

_“It was fine,” Pat sighs. “Sexy. Dark. I’d read the novel. But I can’t—I can’t leave you bleeding in a fucking bathtub, Brian—I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life.”_

_“Please don’t, then,” Brian seizes him. “It was stupid. Really stupid. I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s not stupid,” Pat sighs. “I just can’t be that for you, I don’t think. I’m sorry.”_

_They hold each other for a while, feeling miserable. It’s a good kind of miserable, though, the miserable where you’ve fucked up and you’re sad and shit is wrong, but you know it’s not irreparable. Brian fucks up like that a lot, because he does a lot of improv and also just trying out stupid shit and being a mess of emotions, and he knows how to lie on the ground and hate himself for five minutes and then get the fuck up and fall forward._

_“Let’s do something else,” Brian says, stirring, sitting up. “We can just fuck. Or watch TV. Or you can do one of your things, if you got one in mind. This one’s a bust.”_

_“No.” Pat is scowling again. “I’m good.”_

_Brian’s putting hands on his shoulders. “No, no. Please don’t force it. Wasn’t a good one, doesn’t even have an ending. Why don’t we just, like do something goofy? We can watch Grease and I’ll teach you how to braid hair? Or you can pick out my outfit for work tomorrow? Or you can tie me over the door?”_

_“No.”_

_“Oh my god you are so stubborn.” Brian’s exasperated huff earns a smile from Pat—acknowledgement, maybe. “You’ve been dying to try your new door thing. Are you really gonna turn that down on principle?"_

_“I am a man of principle,” Pat says with a grandiose air, that’s spoiled by Brian’s giggle._

_Pat’s hands tickle him._

_"And I’m still working out the kinks on the door thing. I want to do that at my place. How cute would you be, kid, strung up all helpless while I cook dinner and eat it and have a nice glass of wine and just ignore your pretty little ass struggling all evening.”_

_“Nooooo,” Brian moans. “I hate being ignored, Pat. And I’ll be sooooo hungry…”_

_“I’ll feed you.”_

_Okay, now we’re talking. “Fine. But you never cook dinner. What if you suck at it?”_

_“Don’t bait me, kid. I already know you’ve got twenty bratty little ideas of how you’re gonna piss me off. But anyway. Back to tonight. Do you wanna jump back into it?”_

_“No,” says Brian. “There’s no ending now, and if I try to improv it’ll risk freaking you out again.”_

_“I got an ending.” This surprises Brian. “It’s a bit rough, but I’ve got something. Probably not what you’d like.”_

_“Tell me,” Brian bounces. “Tell me tell me.”_

 

 

“You’re _mine_.”

It—Pat—has Brian pinned down, and his heart is thrumming, thrumming, thrumming,

(with fear, but also dreadful hope, because he sees it—he sees it—just out of reach—)

and he make his body still and pliant until Pat moves down to the neck, and then Brian _bucks_ —

scrambles, elbows, not _breaking free_ but _free enough_

to get his hand on it and get it open and splash the holy water everywhere, on both of them.

Pat _hisses,_ animalistic. He draws back, clawing at his throat, scrambling, stripping clothes, panting with whines of shock and pain. Brian has no time to watch the struggle, though. He _shoves—_ Pat _falls_ —Brian can’t hold him down, not forever, but he can catch the flailing wrists and press in his wet fingertips until they yield and wrench them high and cuff them to the bed.

It’s fast, and rough, and messy, and Brian’s lip is bleeding, but it _works_.

“ _Fool_ ,” Pat spits at him, straining at the cuffs with an expression of pain

(that Brian thinks might mask surprise (or pride) at his mortal audacity)

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You can’t hold me.”

Brian brushes back his hair, lets himself touch the bruises on his tender wrists and wince. “Yeah, yeah. I know you have that like—mist thing. In the morning.”

“You’ll pay dearly for this.” The lidded eyes aren’t smug now, though, and the cold-blooded high-born look is somewhat spoiled. Ruffled hair, half-stripped clothes, water everywhere. Pat bares his teeth. He looks like a captured animal—something regal, like a lion, but trapped and made desperate by lowly human tricks.

Brian doesn’t respond to the empty threats, just starts stripping off wet clothes. As the pants come off, Pat bucks. Brian scolds, “Stop it, asshole, or you’ll never get dry.”

“I don’t need your _mercy_ ,” Pat hisses, in between gasps.

“Well _sooo--rry_ ,” Brian huffs, pulling open Pat’s wet shirt and shoving it up his arms, so it scrunches near the handcuffs and he can shove a little fabric in between. “Stop struggling up here or you’re gonna get silver burns.”

Pat shifts and Brian steps back to see his handiwork. Arms bound above his head, helpless, the slim pale body is not a horror anymore. It’s savage-strong and quite appealing. Brian puts a thoughtful hand on his ankle.

“Touch me and you die, mortal,” Pat growls, and his voice is throaty and fearful.

“Uh-huh,” Brian shrugs, and strokes his finger up. He presses cruelly into a fresh bruise and Pat flinches, hard. “Will you lie still?”

“For what,” says Pat, nervously, as Brian’s finger strokes his shin again.

“Whatever I feel like?” Brian lets his voice drop a little, whispery, still trailing his hand up, circling behind the knee, resting on his thigh. “I’ve got more holy water, you know.”

Pat’s eyes are sullen, silent, but he’s still. Good.

“Let’s fuck some color into those cheeks then,” Brian says conversationally, and Pat chokes

 _(Brian ignores it, the laugh_ )

as Brian reaches for his knees and pulls them, gently, apart.

 

 

 

 

 

Pat is still, as Brian works cold lube into him.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re hot. Inside. I’d’ve thought you’d be cold. This is going to feel _amazing_ when I’m in you _._ ”

The blush is just lovely, really, the way Pat bites his lip. Brian could dirty-talk at him all day.

“You’ll stay still, when I switch this finger for my cock, won’t you? I can make it pretty good, if you behave.” His fingers nip, half-pinching at Pat’s skin, as he speaks. It’s so much fun to tease

(his balls, his thigh, a reach to find his nipple, at a darkening bruise to make him flinch and curse)

 “ _Stop_ ,” the creature barks, at Brian. “Stop it. Stop _talking._ ”

“No, _you_ ,” Brian presses down, archly, on the spot inside Pat most likes. “You’re not staying still. I was gonna do this slow, but…”

“You only have until dawn, mortal,” Pat’s eyes are glaring at him, with dark emotions. “Better make it count.”

 

 

 

 

 

 _God_ —

the heat (and tightness) is amazing—

the way that Patrick shifts, moaning, when he plunges in—

the feet scrambling for angles on Brian’s silky sheets—

the splash of color leaking across Pat’s pale chest—

the way the body jerks, spasms, _long_ before Brian’s done

(so then Pat’s just being fucked, brutal and bruising, and keening for it lustily like a dark creature whose time for earthly pleasures has already come and long gone).

Brian laughs, digs his hands in to Pat’s hips—pulls and pushes so that Pat’s fingers fight to keep purchase on the headboard and so that Brian gets what he needs, whatever he needs, as hard and fast and wild and wicked as he likes, until he’s ready to let go.

 

 

 

 

 

“ _God_ , the eyeliner is fucking good on you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Pat hums, curls Brian closer, checks in on him. “You seemed like you enjoyed yourself. You okay? Back to normal?”

Brian assesses. Their breathing is heavy, the both of them, they’re damp and bruised and worn-out from fighting and from fucking. His ears are ringing—it happens sometimes, after he orgasms—but what does a normal body even _feel_ like, anyway.

“I’m good. You?”

His voice, he knows, is a little nervous (like it is, with this, every time (but less each time))     .

Pat drops his head back on the pillow. “ _Great_. Fuck. Very good. And no, before you ask, I didn’t fuck up my wrists. I know how to stay still when I have to.”

“You didn’t _seem_ very still,” Brian teases. “You tried to kick me in the sternum.”

“I was aiming for the thighs, kid. If you’d stopped dicking around and just _fucked_ me, I wouldn’t have missed. It’s your fault for needing your mouth on me.”  

“Christ, Pat, could you _want_ any less foreplay.”

Pat’s quiet, thinks about whether that’s rhetorical, and then just says,“Yes.”

Brian laughs (in delight, in surprise, in relief). “God, okay. Okay, I can work on that.”

“It’s less time to think about it,” Pat explains (kind of) and Brian pushes away a self-conscious thought (because he knows that Pat likes to think about him). “And also, uh. Look. You know how it is.”

There’s a bashfulness, still, _still,_ when Pat talks about these things, a bashfulness that Brian absolutely loves and is absolutely devoted to destroying. “You like the pain?”

“Yeah.” Pat half-grins. “Didn’t think you had it in you, honestly.”

“Really?” Brian hitches up on an elbow, incredulous. “With the shit you’ve seen me do?”

Pat chuckles. “Underestimating you is kinda my full-time job, these days. But thanks for that. I know the ending left some loose ends, plotwise, but…it really worked for me.”

“Forget the plot. I think it just wanted to be serialized,” Brian lets himself grin. “Monster of the week kind of thing. I think I could be a good action hero. Always in mortal peril, then saving myself by fucking a demon in the ass at the last minute.”

“Your pilot was picked up, Buffy,” Pat taps him on the nose. “Now get writing.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for:  
> \- mentions of murder, blood, death and fantasies of dying, (not suicide or suicidal-ideation, though)  
> \- (roleplay of) hypnosis and non-consensual sex,  
> \- physical fighting in a sexual encounter,  
> \- (roleplay of) fear, horror, and sexual trauma,  
> \- also some of that kind of is not roleplay, too (?), 
> 
> \- safewording & scrapping something that is too intense,  
> \- bondage, including handcuffs,  
> \- rough anal sex.
> 
>  
> 
> hmm. my dear lusty gentlemen, no matter how much i try to write some nice normal bri-topping smut, we always end up with lots of quite strange things happening in The Space Between. i have a word or two to put in with whatever muse hath the steerage of my course. anyway: strike, drum!


	19. - roof --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simone's kinda parties: things get high, things go down. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _at night the stars put on a show for free / and, darling, you can share it all with me_

Simone invites Pat to a party, for the fourth of July. He demurs instinctively—Pat isn’t a party person—but she says _cmon, it’s a great spot, fireworks on the roof, you know my friends are cool, you can bring Brian_ —

and he thinks about how Brian will love watching fireworks on a rooftop in the summer air, so he says yes.

 

 

It’s a fucking beautiful spot. He expected nothing less, from Simone’s crowd—but this place is bohemian paradise writ large and messy, a weird old industrial building that’s been half-gutted and half-turned into apartments (but not very well). The floors are concrete, and some of the rooms are triangle-shaped, and definitely these people pay rent in cash, probably to some guy named Terrance _._

The bean bag chairs and the mess of physics textbooks and the dozen young smart pretty people give Pat a sort of nostalgic, collegey feel — not college as it really was, but college as he thought it would be — all purple grow lights and cinderblock walls hung (quite practically) with cheap bicycles that nobody really _owns_. The place is crazy to the point of being stupid— someone literally lives in a bunk under the stairs and the bathroom door opens in two parts, like in spaghetti westerns — but then they’re guided to crawl out a bedroom window — _yes, yes, step on the bed, it’s fine, up and out, just like that, mind the drop there_ — and find themselves on a _spectacular_ city rooftop.

This part of town isn’t so crowded, and you can see so much _sky_ — and so much city — and so much _everything_ , stretching out in front of you. It’s big and open and concrete, just how rooftops should be. You can walk around the whole expanse of it without any fences or safety rails — over the weird pieces of found furniture and around potted plants and up on different abutments — peering over from this or that corner into this or that apartment or library or museum or slum or other snippet of city life, far below. The roof’s clearly a shared space, segmented off just a little into different seats and tables and gardens that are oddly private, despite none being off-limits and all under the wide open sky.

While the sun’s still shining it’s hot and sticky, but the grilling needs to get going. Because kids are always hungry. It’s vegan hot dogs and stuffed peppers to start — _I’m veg_ , their host apologizes, _but don’t worry, people will show up with meat_. Pat offers a hand but knows his help will be rejected. They’ve got it under control, the residents here. Little strange witch-windows are opening up everywhere from below, and starving artists and math grad students are poking up their heads, laughing and greeting and clambering up and back with youthful treasures — ice and beers and weed and trays of hamburgers and strands of Christmas lights.

 

 

 

Pat feels self-conscious — he’s so _old_ — although these aren’t kids, not really. Simone’s crowd is young to Pat but they’re not to Brian. They make their way further up and further in. Brian hands off their contributions to the collective: they brought whiskey, and gin too, because Pat knows that the job of the old creep at a college party is to show up with _the good stuff_ so that everyone doesn’t have to drink trash vodka all night.

Brian comes back with two beers and they start talking their way across the rooftop in solidarity. They take turns describing their job — it’s interesting to Pat that Brian leads with _video producer_ while Pat usually reaches for _games industry_ first — and they chat with doctors-in-training and chemistry grad students, a kid who already owns a bodega and an impossibly-tall fellow with a wide smile who says his father was a preacher and he’s in the seminary as well.

The guy’s dark-haired boyfriend creeps up on him at just that moment, asks if he’s bragging again and why can’t he just lie and say he’s a lawyer or something normal. The tall kid smiles from a foot and a half above and says _Matt, bearing false witness is a sin_ and the short kid starts singing

“ _the only boy who could ever reach me— was the son of a preacher man”_

and he’s got a good voice, if a little rough—

Brian joins in impulsively in perfect harmony on the ” _yes he was_ ” bit

—so suddenly Brian’s made two best friends and they’re off chatting and singing and talking.

Pat pulls away quietly.

 

 

 

 

Pat finds it’s easy to slip off, in this space. A party in the open air is so much better than one trapped in a house — stumbling through bedrooms — this place is free and easy movement personified and there’s a dozen places he can park himself for when he needs a moment to feel insufficient.

He grabs another beer and climbs over a cable spool to find a space well up on a concrete wall. He’s not hidden, but he’s not in a conversation either. Kids pass by offering food and drinks and drugs with easy generosity. He accepts a hot dog but not a cocktail — it’s going to be one of those sticky summer nights that was made for only pale yellow beer and burned fingertips.

Brian’s easy to spot. Just one beer in and in his element already. Simone’s friends are low-key and lovely, artists and poets and musicians and thinkers all (even the ones who are shucking off their ties), so Brian is glowing with excitement and natural charm.

He watches Brian’s new friends offer him something—probably homegrown weed, Pat would guess, based on their faces. One looks proud of himself, like he’s just done something hard and the other one is eye-rolling as if to say _oh my god we could just buy this shit dude._ Brian’s face looks excited and also sneaky, like he’s afraid he’s gonna get caught, but his hand is out, palm up, becuase that kid’ll fuckin try anytihing.

 

 

 

 

 

The evening comes on slow in midsummer, and Pat enjoys watching the sky as the sun sinks below the blocky horizon and the light turns purple, then blue, then grey. The kids are flitting around like sprites, turning on Christmas lights and passing out sparklers, pointing out to the newbies the direction that the best show will be. They should be able to see two or three, from this height. The view is going to be _amazing._

Brian finds him, as Pat thought he might, appearing in the twilight with a puckish grin that looks both a little naughty and a little nervous, like he wants to ask permission for something and he’s not sure Pat’ll say yes.

“What’d they give you, you little sweet-talker.”

“Shrooms,” Brian says, and Pat thinks he’s probably blushing, even though it’s too dim to tell. “I haven’t dropped in a long time, though. I wasn’t sure—”

“I can keep an eye on you, if you like,” Pat says lightly. “Only a few beers for me, tonight.”

“I’ll be fine,” Brian says, though he looks a little relieved. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t—sometimes I put you in weird situations—or, like—abandon you at parties—”

“Nah. This one is pretty chill. Simone’s friends are too cool for me, but I like the view. Go have fun.”

“Okay,” Brian says, tentative. He doesn’t want to leave Pat alone. “Dyou wanna learn a card game? It sounds hard because it’s got half-suits…but Matt says it’s really good.”

“Hmmm,” Pat pretends to ponder the offer. “I think I’ll just stay here. If you don’t mind. Call me over when poker breaks out, though.”

“Okay,” Brian squeezes his arm, and flits off to go learn some new intricate nutty card game and trip the light fantastic and be young and free and glorious. Pat’s glad they came.

 

 

 

 

Simone’s the one that finds him next, and she’s pushier than Brian — insists he meet a few people — her ex who works at a bakery (her pie is, predictably, delicious) and her roommate Garth who played competitive Scrabble and fixes cars. Pat obliges her, mostly because it’s interesting to watch her at parties with her friends—she’s goofy, and her laugh is still _crazy_ — but she’s also beautiful and interesting and smart and funny. It’s fun to watch someone who’s so _good_ at something.

Brian pulls his elbow when the first crackles start. “ _Cmon_ ,” he says. “ _Let’s go grab your spot._ ”

They do; climb up together on the concrete bank and let their feet hang down. Pat stays sitting, but Brian lies down, lets his arms rest behind his head and sighs in contentment at the stars.

“You’re gonna miss the best fireworks, like that.”

Brian shrugs in unconcern, still staring upward.

“Having a good trip?” Pat asks

“Yeah.”

Pat glances down. The kid’s pupils are pretty wide, but he seems like he’s enjoying himself. Shrooms don’t encourage loquacity, if he remembers correctly.

“Need anything?”

Brian nods, and pulls Pat’s hand into his hair, hums happily when Pat strokes it. Pat keeps doing so, but as the fireworks start to go off in earnest he grabs and shakes a little.

“Hey, get up here. I’ll hold you. You’ll wanna see.”

A _hmm_ of assent, and Pat presses Brian up, sits behind him. They’re facing not quite the right direction—half-right, though, so when Brian leans his head on Pat’s shoulder he can see just fine.

“You’re a good trip-sitter,” Brian murmurs. 

“Remind me to update my resumé,” Pat chuckles. “D’you like it?”

“It’s _beautiful_.” Brian’s voice is soft. Not sleepy, exactly, just floaty. Sounds like it’s going well.

 

 

 

 

Poker _does_ break out, downstairs, but Pat stays on his spot on the roof, because when the fireworks are over Brian’s already asleep — or something close to it. When Pat asks him when he wants to go home he gets no answer and has to guess that Brian probably doesn’t care very much. The air is nice out here, anyway, and they probably shouldn’t leave without Simone.

Talk of the devil. She’s there, immediately, looking ravishing and drunk in the twinkling light.

“I call next turn on your lap,” she says, and although it’s quiet it still makes Pat blush. Good thing it’s dark.

“Occupied,” he says delicately.

“Aw, _he’s_ not using it,” she scrunches her nose. “C’mon Pat, roll him over there and kiss me. Please?”

It’s hard to say no to Simone, ever, but especially now when she’s looking so gorgeous— and also, she’s drunk enough to kick up a fuss. He pulls his legs gently back and around, moves Brian over to his side, hesitates. He doesn’t really just wanna put the kid’s head down on concrete, but he doesn’t have a sweatshirt.

“You got a jacket, Simone? That I can put under Brian’s head?”

“Nope,” she says, but her hands are instantly unbuttoning her blouse. It makes Pat startle, a bit

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s hot anyway,” she shrugs. “And I’ve got a bra on. Cute one, too.” She pulls it off with easy unconcern, and tucks it under Brian’s head, strokes his hair. “Poor little thing. All tuckered out.”

“I think the shrooms made him sleepy.”

Simone snorts. “Adorable. Doesn’t hit me like that, have to say. Makes me horny.”

Pat knows what’s coming.

“ _Simone_. We are about as in public as it is possible to be. At your _friend’s party_.”

“Most everyone’s downstairs,” she shrugs. “After eleven the roof’s for drugs and make-outs only.” She smirks. “And _discreet_ fucking, between friends. Don’t look behind that greenhouse, by the way, unless you wanna get roped in.”

“Ah,” Pat sighs. “You’ve gotta tell me the rules before I come to these things, Simone.”

“Afraid of getting a citation?” Her eyes are sparkling. “I think I can get you off with a warning.”

Pat looks at her—

he’s going to let her do this, he decides, because so what if he never gets invited back again, it makes him feel young and stupid and afraid, and he there’s some strange need to feel that, tonight—

he nods, and she hops up on his lap to straddle him.

She’s not patient, when she’s like this, so he just rests his arms securely around her hips, folds his hands behind her back so she won’t fall. She’s getting him out, roughly, just peeking out of jeans and boxers, then stroking him hard and unromantically practical. When she’s satisfied with what she’s got, she leans up on her knees—Pat’s grateful for her skirt—and slides herself down onto Pat’s length in one smooth, slow, motion.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Pat sighs, against his will. “This is a bad idea.”

“Don’t worry, daddy,” Simone strokes his chin. “I’ll cum so quick for you. You just sit right there. Anyone that sees you will just think you’re making out with a real randy bitch. You’ll be the coolest kid in school.”

He chides gently, “Simone, you’re—”

—she does something, mid-chide, and the sentence dies in his throat, because if he’d continued talking it would have been a moan.

“…amazing? perfect? a goddess? always right about everything?”

“All of those,” he grunts, as she moves the way she wants. He can’t, really—with his legs hanging down, he has no leverage at all, and maybe it’s for the best, as it would jerk her body obscenely. Instead, she’s barely moving—a little rocking, maybe—making space for her fingers to sneak under her skirt and toy with her clit. Pat closes his eyes. It’s silly to blush. It’s dark, no one’s watching. Probably. And even if they were, he’s just a skinny old man with a beautiful woman on his lap, teasing him with light kisses. So what if she’s getting herself off, with him inside her, just how she wants.

It’s beautiful torture, watching her enjoy herself, and holding still. She leans forward when she wants a kiss, which is rarely—mostly, she’s throwing her head back and looking at the stars.

Her orgasm comes when she’s looking up like that, blissful, and Pat curls his fingers into her soft back.

 

 

 

 

 

“Done with me?” Pat lets his tone have a little humor, after her breathing subsides, returns.

She opens her mouth to quip, but stops. Looks. A hand brushes against his shoulder. Ah. Brian’s awake.

“You have to wake me up,” he whines. “For the fun stuff.”

“I _knew_ it would make you horny,” Simone grins, triumphantly, and grinds down on Pat’s dick.

“He’s always like that,” Pat says, affectionately flicking an eye over. The kid is coming down, maybe. Seems like he understands the parameters of the world around him a bit more.

“You wanna get fucked, baby?” Simone asks him, putting a hand on his hair and pulling him close. “Do you even know where you are?”

Brian lets her kiss him instead of answering, either question. Pat examines their kiss. It’s interesting, watching them work out some things, just now, without disentangling tongues. _Let’s say I’m too high to hold back_ , Simone’s increasingly hungry bites asks. _Let’s say I’m too high to say when_ , Brian’s willing mouth answers.

Simone throws her weight haphazardly, to get both hands on Brian’s head, trusting that Pat will keep her from falling. He does, but her shift pulls her almost off, and he sighs.

“No, no, don’t mind me, you crazy kids get it on.”

There’s a wicked little glint in Brian’s eye when he looks at Pat for that statement. _I know you love it, old man._

Pat does—loves sighing and gripping the concrete in frustration, when Simone pulls off to _ravage_ Brian and his dick is left, trembling and damp and hard and cool, alone in the night air.

 

 

 

 

“You’ll break his glasses,” Pat comments laconically, as Simone grinds her pussy onto Brian’s face. He’s not sure they hear him, though. Brian whimpers and hums and Simone cackles softly and squeezes without pause.

Pat leans back on an arm, raises a leg, and strokes himself slowly, watching. It’s—a sight. How she even got Brian like that, so quickly, Pat will never know—arms caught up beside his head, her shins crossing them, flexed feet near his armpits, both sharp knees driving into his poor little bruised wrists. It’s intoxicating, how Brian moans in pain and desire, how if he licks some way she doesn’t like, she just shift her weight a modicum and presses her cunt down hard to stifle his scream.

She’s going to come again, soon, Pat thinks, as she starts to get sloppy with her movements and one of Brian’s hands gets free to grip her side, loop a desperate finger under her bra. He wants to touch her so _badly_ , Pat knows.

“Take care of that for me, Pat,” she grunts. “I’m busy.”

Pat reaches over and grabs the hand, pressing it down to the concrete. He holds, firm but not squeezing, letting only his fingers be his connection to this crazy youthful thing that is happening next to him. He wishes he could see Brian’s face—but from the sounds, he knows what it looks like, under her skirt—hot and wet and desperate with bliss.

“I fucking _love_ his mouth, Pat,” she trills. “I’m going to kidnap him from you and make him live under my desk. You can fuck him when I’m in a meeting or something.”

Brian whimpers, because Simone knows him so well, already.

“You gonna touch him?” Pat asks, stroking a thumb down the palm he’s got caught. “Or is tonight just for you?”

“I think he needs to make me cum again first,” she says. “Let’s check in.”

She pulls her skirt up with a free hand, and Brian’s face is as expected—horny and desperate and wet and trying so very, very hard. He says nothing, because he can’t.

“You hear that, baby boy? How tired are you? Can mama squeeze one more out of you— _ooh_ , saucy!” She laughs, and it’s loud and goofy like always and my god, how it makes Pat’s heart jump, the way it echos off into the dark.

“ _Simone_ ,” he shushes. “No _laughing_ , Christ.”

“Sorry,” she whispers back. “It’s not _my_ fault, this little slut started fucking me with his tongue. _Fuck,_ Pat, I really am stealing him. Or buying him. How much do you want?”

“You can rent him,” Pat taps on Brian’s wrist. “But he doesn’t come cheap.”

Brian moans in blissful delight and his hips buck with need. He’d be begging, if he could.

“Let me touch him, Simone. I won’t distract him too much. I know he’s concentrating.”

“Oh all right, you old softy,” she rocks back and forth a little, making something slide along her slit. “Give me his hand, then. The minute his technique drops, though, I’m making you stop.”

It’s so cute, how Brian sobs at that—

the perfect threat for a little overachiever. He’s so plaintive, scrabbling at her chest.

Brian moans in consternation when Pat takes his dick in a firm hand. Pat knows he’ll cry, when the hand starts moving, because as Pat makes it more and more impossible for Brian to control his pacing, Simone will get more and more fierce, until she digs her fingers into Brian’s collarbone and shoves aside Pat and stops the orgasm in its tracks. She’s curl down into Brian’s ear and tell him he’s being lazy, stupid, selfish, and that if he wants to come again this fucking _week_ he’d better remember what he’s good for and get to it.

It goes about how he expects.

“I don’t give a _fuck_ how tired you are,” she tugs his hair, eyes shining like stars. She’s up on one foot and one knee for a minute, leaning, letting the poor kid breathe, and cry, and apologize, and get himself together so he doesn’t come too fast. “At least Patrick is _patient_. Maybe I’ll just go back to his cock and just make _you_ watch.”

Brian shakes his sweet little head, in desperation. “ _B-but please_ — _then—after?_ ”

“Such a greedy little whore,” she taunts, affectionately. “You can’t have _everything_. My stamina has limits. Only one of you’s getting off tonight, slut. Let’s see what your daddy wants to do.”

“Let me get him off,” Pat murmurs. “He’s earned it.”

Brian's tears of gratitude are younger and sweeter than Pat's old, useless frustration.

Pat jerks Brian off gently—after Simone finishes, of course--as their little filthy human sobs and moans of pleasure and pain echo out under the uncaring stars.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS includes  
> \- public or semi-public sex / exhibitionism / voyeurism,  
> \- oral sex that is somewhat forceful, p-i-v sex that doesn't end in climax,  
> \- alcohol & drugs, and sex while intoxicated / high,  
> \- M/M/F threesome,  
> \- orgasm denial.
> 
>  
> 
> warnings for general wistfulness, and for me not having been on a roof in new york, and substituting my knowledge of the arts district in LA, which is like, the new yorkest part of the least new york city?!


	20. - nope -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian's a good student -- he tries and tries, at least. pat teaches him something.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _how can you have any pudding if you don’t eat yer meat?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, this one like:  
> sweet & cute --> whoa fuck this got triggery in a very real way --> sweet & cute  
> see end warnings for specifics

They have three false starts (for the hot-for-teacher thing).

Brian knows he should probably just drop it. He’s got plenty of fantasies— _plenty_ , most of which are less clichéd—but there’s just something classic and desirable about Pat in a nice tidy sweater, rolling up his sleeves and smacking Brian’s cheeky little ass with a ruler for carving song lyrics into the desk again. Oh my _god_ , Brian can see it now. He’s game to do it in whatever way Pat wants most…

(Brian could be a slutty schoolgirl, in pleated skirt and pigtails, stupid and giggly but smart _in his way_ and gonna get that A one way or another. He can see it: Pat would make anguished _oh-I-really-shouldn’t_ looks when Brian stretches over a desk—Pat would play innocent with that strained, aroused voice when Brian makes some innuendo, asking for help after class—Pat would stroke his trembling fingers under Brian’s shirt when he sneaks on his lap, and would decide _oh hell, this is worth risking everything._ )

…whatever way Pat wants to be cast…

(Brian could be a troublemaker who decides to fuck with the wrong substitute teacher. He could be a little shit, make some nasty jokes, stir up trouble. He knows what Pat would do: raise an eyebrow, calm, letting his lack of reaction stir up Brian’s insecurity and make him push harder. Brian’d say something real shitty to get detention—maybe some homophobic slurs, that might have the right flavor?—and Pat would just say _see me after class_ all mild-mannered—and then bend him over the desk and fuck the bad boy right out of him.)

…whatever Pat likes to see Brian doing…

(Brian could be a nervous young college student, all earnest and desperate to please. He has so much backstory—it’s a lit class, Pat’s a well-known scholar, Brian’s been writing essays all year exploring the sexuality of Shakespeare characters. Brian can imagine in his head—the little drips and drabs of praise and critique, how his heart would hang on every one—how he’d leap at the chance to _discuss your recent essay more deeply_ at said professor’s house, how complicated and terrible and wonderful the feeling would be when Pat shares a book from his private collection, and then puts a hand on Brian’s thigh.)

It becomes clear that Pat has a _thing_ about this,

(sometimes he has it, these _things_ )

and Brian keeps shelving it in the brainstorming phase, because Pat makes _that_ face

(the _um um I have some hangup about this and I will literally never admit it_ face)

and _that_ face is like a warning

(not a very specific warning)

like the illuminated calligraphy on the edge of an old-timey map, labeling uncharted waters with drawings of sea monsters and sirens, calling on only the brave to venture forth.

Brian should _really_ drop it.

But y’know. No one ever discovered new continents that way.

 

 

 

 

 

“How would we even find a place to do that, Bri?”

When he pitches it for the fourth time, Pat turns it down on the basis of practicality. And it _is_ too elaborate, the setup Brian’s got in his head…

(Pat would be at the board, scratching out some arcane equation with chalk, lecturing. You would hear a pin drop in the room, even though his back is turned, because he is _pissed_ and everybody knows what happened yesterday to that new kid who just got on the wrong side of Mr. Gill.

 _Gilbert,_ Pat would bark, without turning. _Time to redeem yourself. What’s the answer?_

Brian could make himself startle. He could fake it, but he’d rather do some pre-pro, make sure he’s bruised from an excellent beating the day before. It’s just too tasty to imagine, how he’d be squirming, not paying attention, distracted by the ache of his ass on the hard wooden desk.

Should he stutter, give the wrong answer, give no answer? Would Pat want to be mean— _Daydreaming again, Gilbert? I’m more likely to get the right answer out of a housefly than you. Tell me, is it because you’re stupid, or just lazy?—_ or more stern and disciplinary— _You’ll never amount to anything if you can’t pay attention, Gilbert. Seems I need to remind you why this is important. It’s for your own good._ )

“—ian, come in Brian, I can see you’re working on dialogue.”

Brian blinks, finds the quirk of Pat’s lips. “Sorry. Sorry. Got carried away.”

“It’s fine. Cute. I’m just worried you’re gonna get yourself all worked up without any logistics. Like the skydiving one.”

“Yeah.” Brian sighs. “True. Okay, nix that, then. Instead…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fifth time, Brian legitimately starts to worry.

Not because he’s afraid he won’t get what he wants, (he might not, but that’s fine, sometimes it don’t click, man, Brian wants a _lot of things_ ), but because he doesn’t know _why_. Pat’s absolutely indulgent of Brian’s every whim and fantasy, most of the time. And even when he resists (which is rare, and always indirect), his protests can be bowled over by aggressive flirting, fussing, or downright fucking-with, whichever comes first.

Brian _pushes,_ that’s his thing. He considers himself something of a psychic masseuse (a metaphor that Pat pretends to hate), jabbing hard into muscles and working out knots and making Pat _hurt so fucking good_. Unfortunately he’s a self-taught practicioner, and Pat’s anatomy is quite unique. Sometimes you just get a thumb in, and the body under you moans, and you don’t know if you’ve found a spot that needs your attentions or a bundle of nerves that will just end in useless screaming.

He used to worry that it wasn’t worth the risk, pushing on stuff like that. But Pat _needs_ it, sometimes. He won’t get it out on his own. And also: Brian’s fucking _curious_.

 

 

 

“What’s your problem with teachers?” he asks, when Pat is drunk, which isn’t fair at all.

Pat squints at him. “Huh?”

They’re in public—at a bar—one that Brian likes (because it has tabletop shuffleboard) and Pat likes (because there are almost no watery beers and it’s very funny to him when Brian tries to drink a stout). It’s in public,  which isn’t where you’d think that this conversation should happen, but Pat’s actually worse at this in bed, sometimes.

“I keep pitching sexy teacher stuff, and you keep turning me down. Which is fine. I just wanted to know why? Like, if it’s a thing that I should keep pitching until I hit it or I should quit it forever.”

“Uh,” Pat is wrong-footed, by the question, and puts down his beer slowly. “You can pitch away, kid. I just don’t know a place where I can buy a blackboard.”

Brian waves a hand. “I can do props. That’s not it."

“Isn’t it?” Pat scowls. “Stop trying to climb into my head. I know what you’re doing.”

“Sorry,” Brian relents quickly

(because he’s got enough, actually, just from Pat’s expression

(Fuck. He needs to drop it, for real. _Fuck._ ))

Pat is glaring at him, and he’s gonna be a little angry for a bit. Which Brian definitely deserves. But _fuck._

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to spring a weird thing on you—just thought of it, because of the like—chalkboard over there—I’ll shut up. Want me to put us down for shuffleboard?”

“Goddammit, Brian.” Oh dear, the scowl is _pronounced_ , now, and Pat was, like, maybe a little drunker than Brian thought. _Fuck_. “Can’t you just fucking leave something alone. For once.” He sighs. “What am I saying. Of course not. I’m sure the next time you ask I’ll be even easier to rip shit out of. You’ll make sure.”

This stings, a little, but Pat’s not unfamiliar with Brian’s _modus operandi_ , so he knows how to make it bite.

“Sorry. No, I wouldn’t. I mean. Okay, yes I totally would in general, but um. Specifically, I won’t bug you again about this. Ever. Sorry.”

Pat closes his eyes. “God _damn it_ Brian, whatever you think you’ve figured out, it’s _not. that_.”

Brian sips his beer, because he doesn’t like how it tastes, and that way he has an excuse to wince. Oh dear. This is going to happen in public, this fight, and it’s going to suck, and it’s his fault. Fuck.

“I didn’t fucking get _molested,_ if that’s what you’re asking.”

The electric sparks that run along his skin when Pat’s mad at him are exactly the same as the ones when Pat pretends to be mad at him, except these ones hurt. It’s like how pain that he loves when Pat hits him would definitely make him call the cops if it were anyone else. It’s like how when you’re post-orgasmic a finger across your dick can make you _scream_. It’s like how if you’re already blackout drunk and not somewhere safe, a hot flirty forward stranger putting a hand on your arm makes your stomach curl in _a different way_. 

Pat’s trying to reign in his anger, and doing okay. “I just don’t like thinking about it, okay? I’ve got reasons, but they’re not whatever you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Brian says, quietly. “Except that I kinda fucked up. So sorry. Do you wanna go?”

Pat sighs and drains his glass. “No. I don’t want to talk about this at home.”

“ ‘Kay.”

“I know people get into it, but I just fucking can’t, okay.” Pat reaches over and steals Brian’s beer, which is actually a nice thing to do, because if they have to wait to get out of here until Brian finishes this beer they are going to miss work tomorrow. “It creeps me out. It’s personal.”

“That’s normal, Pat. Everyone’s got turn-offs. You don’t have to justify it.”

“ _Stop_ it with that shit,” Pat growls. “Pretending like you didn’t ask. You want to know, so I’m telling you.”

Brian’s quiet, guilty, because

(he _did_ ask, and he _does_ want to know, actually)

he knows he deserves this tone, a little, for coming at the thing in this way.

“My first girlfriend got fucked by our freshman English teacher, okay? And I don’t like remembering what picking up the pieces was like.”

“I’m sorry.” Terse works best, when Pat’s like this. Prompt. Be quiet. Listen.

“He was a real piece of work. I never liked him, thought he was an idiot pothead who couldn’t tell Romeo and Juliet from his own asshole, but I didn’t _know_ that—that—” Pat pauses, stuck on something.

“It happened before you dated? Or during.”

“Before. She didn’t tell me about it, right away. It was, like, two years later. More than. We tried fucking a few times and she freaked out.” Pat is looking somewhere, to the left of Brian’s face. “I think she was a virgin, before. She never told me, exactly. Sex was hard for her. She kept fucking crying, like I was gonna leave her, if she didn’t figure it out.”

“Eesh. Sounds like a heavy thing for a first relationship.”

“Yeah,” Pat pulls a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—I didn’t do a great job, with it all. In, like, so many fucking ways. I wish I’d told somebody. _Any fucking body_. She made me swear, she said it was her idea, and I was I guess like fucking seventeen and just happy to get my dick wet. God, if I could strangle myself—”

“I could see it feeling complicated,” Brian says, gently. “Did he get caught?”

“Yeah. My senior year. Two twins. What a fucking _monster_. Their parents were on the ball, I guess. Noticed something wrong and didn’t sit there like a _fucking moron_ and do _nothing_ about it.”

Brian sighs. “Pat. It’s pretty tough. To know how to interfere. When she didn’t want you to. And you didn’t know the details. And you were just a kid.”

“I was old enough to know better,” Pat says darkly, and finally his eyes find Brian’s face. “You would’ve done it. In a heartbeat. I know you. You do the fuckin right thing, when it counts.”

There’s no response Brian can muster to this comment, so he just moves on. “Thanks, for telling me. I know you didn’t want to, and I pushed, and I shouldn’t’ve.”

Pat shrugs. He’s nearly done with Brian’s beer, but he looks much less agitated. “Eh, fuck it. You should probably know. In case I go off in some fucking scene. And it’s keeping you from having your fun. I dunno, kid. I might get over it, one day. If you keep poking.”

“You don’t have to—I won’t—” Brian says quickly, but Pat waves a hand, brushes him off. 

“Nah, fucking do it. It pisses me off, but it’s better that you know. You deserve to know. I’m just an asshole that can’t tell you.” He glances at Brian’s face, which is very still. “You look like you’re trying not to cry.”

“I’m fine,” Brian says, because he is. He’s not _that_ close to tears, although there’s a little pricking. He’s just sorry, is all. So sorry.

“You used to look like that a lot, when we fucked. A little happier about it, but yknow. Trying not to get weepy on me.”

“Yeah. I suck at—uh, self-control. For that.”

Pat snorts. “Yup. You _love_ crying. It’s really fucking beautiful, too. And totally worth it, even if the first few times I wanted to fucking puke, because you _look_ like her, Brian. Not exactly but—some things. But I got over it. For you. And now it’s a fucking turnon, so that worked out pretty well for me too.”

Brian closes his eyes. “Pat Gill, you make me feel like I’m sleepwalking through landmines.”

A hand is on his. “Hey, kid. You’re doing pretty good, all things considered.”

“Sorry that I drag things out of you,” Brian smiles wanly. “With alcohol and subterfuge. I just wanted to know.”

“Eh,” Pat shrugs. “Simone usually just beats me until I confess _._ Honestly don’t know which one I prefer. Let’s settle up? I want to go home and shoot some zombies and kiss you and not think about shit.”

 

 

 

 

They fuck without pretense, that night. Pat’s very tender, like he always is when he’s been mad that day. Brian’s had angry sex before (he doesn’t love it (it doesn’t mesh well, with the self-control required for some of his hobbies)) but Patrick doesn’t do that, anyway, because Pat was raised Catholic and thinks that wrath is evil. 

Instead, Pat has angry sex like a meditation. It’s very intense for Brian, but lovely in its way.

Pat leads him into the room by the hand and presses him to the mattress, firmly, softly, for a kiss. It’s not slow or soft or fast or hungry, as Pat tilts Brian’s face back with his own. The stubble scratches pleasantly along Brian’s chin. Pat tastes like bitter beer, a little, but mostly tastes like nothing at all, like his mouth is part of Brian’s own body and his brain has long since ceased to register it as alien.

(

Brian didn’t, like, _make out_ a ton, actually, until he started dating Pat. He liked kisses fine (especially from cute boys) but he was always more interested in moving on to _other things_. When you’re a power hitter you don’t tend to spend a lot of time dallying around first base.

So at first he’d told Pat _I’m not much for kissing_ and Pat made a face that Brian couldn’t read and they kinda left it alone. They put their mouths together a lot, sure—mouths locking to stifle moans, forcing a tongue down a vulnerable throat, sweet pecks and quick swipes with a tongue or lips—but not so much the old-school romanticky kissing. 

(

Of course, Pat loves kissing (which Brian hadn’t known, yet) so eventually Pat tried to kiss Brian— _really_ kiss him, smooth and slow and up against a door, hands on Brian’s waist—and Brian was so embarrassed at his lack of practice that he kept pulling away in shame every time he fucked up something (teeth click (wrong sound (noses weird (too much spit—wait maybe enough spit?) where do noses normally go)) licking people’s teeth is weird brian come on (ugh (ugh) fuck))..

“I’m bad at this,” Brian finally said, pushing Pat away. He felt unpracticed, stupid. “I’m the worst at making out. Let me do something I’m good at. Something you’ll like.”

“Are you gonna Pretty Woman me again,” Pat said, looking down a little sadly. “I like this just fine.”

Brian remembers blushing, and stammering something, probably something self-deprecating, or maybe apologies, or maybe just trying to explain.

But he remembers what Pat said, clear as crystal: “We’ve been dating for a month, kid, and I feel like I barely know how to kiss you. You don’t have to do it right. Just relax and let me figure out what you like. I dig it.”

)

After he let Pat do his exploring and construct his hypotheses, Brian found that he actually _does_ like kissing, quite a lot, or more specifically he likes being kissed by Pat, because Pat has put some effort into constructing a hundred-page walkthrough of how Brian likes to be kissed. Frankly, Brian doesn’t know how it works—sometimes he’ll observe something, like _huh, I must really like having him pull my lower lip with his teeth_ —but mostly he just lets Pat do his thing, and does what feels natural, and somehow these days everything almost always works out perfect.

)

When Pat’s satisfied with the kissing, he strips off Brian’s clothes, neither slow nor fast. It doesn’t feel torturous, the pacing, even though it’s deliberate. Pat doesn’t speak very much, when he’s this way, just passes warm hands over Brian’s body, and moves his mouth to worship here and there, and sometimes pulls back and just says _beautiful_ thoughtfully, like he’s leaving on the last day of vacation and trying hard to remember the view.

Brian feels unworthy, sometimes, when Pat takes him into his mouth. His eyes are always burning, but not with anger—that’s all gone, now, and they are burning with desire and gratitude and kindness and a million other things that Brian can’t understand. He never wishes for mind-reading powers quite as sincerely as when Pat is sucking and swirling around his cock, making him arch off the bed with desire, and Pat’s face makes a quick, affectionate expression that has something more complicated in it, too.

“What are you thinking about,” Brian murmurs, even though they’re in the middle of sex, and it feels _good_ , and you’re not supposed to do things like ask real questions, right now.

Pat pulls his mouth back for a second, hair falling in his eyes. “Justice,” he rumbles, enigmatically.

Brian throws his head back

(because what the fuck is he supposed to do with _that_ )

and groans, because Pat’s tongue is licking up the bottom of his length relentlessly, wet and hot and firm and erasing, in its wake, any chance he has of figuring out what that might mean. He—

( _God_ , the humming)

—tries once more, just in case—

“Earthly, or heavenly?”

—but Pat just smiles and ignores him, and fucks him all night sweet and slow, and Brian lets it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS including  
> \- explicit reference to underage sex / molestation (it's off-screen, but it's not roleplay),  
> \- working out some shit while drunk in a public place,  
> \- oral sex. 
> 
>  
> 
> srry for person who very reasonably asked for some student/teacher porn. i tried to make it happen, but turns out that dog don't hunt, yet. maybe one day?!


	21. - five -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat wants something. brian arranges it. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _oh there ain’t no rest for the wicked / until we close our eyes for good_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thx to turnontheghostlight for taking a look at this one when I was struggling with it mightily. 
> 
> this one's a bit rough, because i couldn't polish it without getting frustrated, but the next chap assumes it's happened chronologically so i was like FUCK LET'S JUST GO FOR IT

It really takes the wind out of Pat’s sails—

when he’s been working up the nerve to ask about this for _months—_ because it’s going too fucking far—it’s too much, it’s too extreme, it’s too filthy—it asks too much of Brian, most of all—he’ll probably be horrified— _what the fuck is wrong with my boyfriend — why would he want to do that to me_ —what if he hurts the kid—he’d never—

—it really takes the wind out of his sails, when Brian cocks his head and makes a little thoughtful face and is just like, “Oh, sure! When you wanna do it?”

Pat is still in a cold briny sweat, slack-jawed. So Brian graciously hops over his part of the conversation.

“I need like, mmm, a week maybe? ‘Cause it takes a little prep.”

Pat can’t respond to this. He’s researched the prep, of, course. Secretly— _very_ secretly, late at night and on a dim screen as if the hour and the dimness could hide what he’s doing from himself—half-hated himself for jerking off to a literal how-to guide, possibly more than once—

“Dyou wanna get me ready, or should I just do it and let you know?”

“I—I’d—you don’t—”

Brian grins. “You gotta stop stressing so much, Patrick. Just keep repeating to yourself. My boyfriend’s a real freak. He’s prolly already into it. Might as well ask.”

Pat lets the smile of desperate relief play across his features, even though it’s too telling. He brushes back his hair.

Brian kisses him and giggles. “You are precious. Why you worry so much?”

“Sorry,” Pat lets himself sigh. “Just always afraid I’ll hit your limits.” He narrows his eyes. “I _will_ someday, right?”

“Yes!” Brian huffs, probably because it makes Pat laugh. “Oh my god, I _do_ have limits, and you _will_ hit them, and I _will_ tell you, and it’ll be _fine_ , for the last time. And don’t accuse me of being a figment of your imagination again, it’s _not_ _funny_.”

“Sorry.” Pat, contrite, pats Brian’s head. “It just makes more sense if you’re a fantasy. How incredible you are.”

Pat’s body feels like it’s vibrating—easing back from terrified embarrassment—energy converting to scintillating, anticipatory arousal. _Brian is going to let him do this_.

“I’m not a fantasy, I’m _normal_. I just like sex a lot. And I’d like this.”

Brian’s preening a little, proud, as usual, to be fun and dirty and so deliciously extreme that by the time Pat tip-toes out to peek over the precipice Brian’s already halfway through rappelling down.

“Are you sure, babe? I’m not pushing you beyond your limits? Which, yes, I will take on faith do exist.”

“Paaaaat, I have limits. I just—” Brian flashes a sheepish grin, “I just keep leaving them laying around, and somebody keeps moving them. We’ll find ‘em one day.”

“Someday,” Pat says, fondly, tweaking his cheek.

“Not in the next week, though,” Brian says eagerly. “So, let’s get me ready. Wanna help?”

_Oh indeed pat wants to help_ very much so in fact. That’s kind of the whole, uh, thing.

 

 

 

 

 

Once that’s sorted, Brian gives him the reins. Or honestly, Pat takes them.

“Oh my _god_ why do you keep logging out of your shopping cart, Pat, I’m just trying to buy cat treats for you before Charlie gives up and decides he’s moving in with me.”

“Ah. Sorry babe,” Pat purrs, stroking Brian’s neck. “Trying to keep you in suspense a bit.”

Brian sits up. “Oh. I didn’t even know if—because we talked—it’s been a while—”

It’s fucking magical, the nape of Brian’s neck. The skin is covered with downy hair and when Pat noses his breath along it, the kid stops whatever he’s saying, every time. He could be reciting the oath of office or in the middle of the Pokemon rap, it doesn’t fucking matter. He’s like a kitten that’s been scruffed.

Kissing there guarantees continued silence—anything more make him proceed to moans, and writhing, and touching himself involuntarily and begging and begging for more. Which is all fun. But sometimes Pat prefers to just keep kissing. That way, he can keep Brian like this as long as he wants— _truly_ , as long as he wants—shivering and whimpering as his lips work up and down, too wavery-soft to draw out screams but too insistent to be ignored. God, it’s fucking fun.

“I’m going to take my time,” Pat whispers, kisses, against his shoulder. “Like I like.”

He doesn’t touch anything else, just holds an arm around Brian’s chest, kisses up to the shell of his ear and back down again, noses into his neck, bites the hairs at the base of his head and tugs them, just a little.

Brian’s so _helpless_ , while Pat indulges himself. He can’t do a fucking thing. He’s not trapped, and he’s not in pain, but there’s a little sadism here anyway. Especially when Brian’s trying to ask a question, or make a point, or finish a video, or win an argument about what to watch on TV.

“Patriiiiiiick,” Brian whines, when his hitching breaths finally are permitted to stop. “You’re gonna torture me for like a month with this one, aren’t you?”

“You know it,” Pat smiles into Brian’s hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian’s never had a plug in at work, so they start small. Just a cute little number, short and round and sweet, to get him used to it. It does _crazy_ things to Pat’s dick, watching the kid. He’s fidgety by nature, and it’s so fucking fun to watch him catch himself mid-fidget, all day, with a little half-gasp and a quick dart of the eyes around the room, as if asking himself _is anyone noticing I’m being weird._ Then his eyes meet Pat’s, and Pat smiles evilly, and Brian has to look away because, yknow: more fidgeting.

It doesn’t seem like it affects Brian’s work quality appreciably, which is good, because Pat feels like he _never_ wants to give this up—the chance to brush past Brian’s desk, when he’s deep in concentration on something, and just tap him on the shoulder—and know why he gives that extra special little twitch.

“What is it, that this does it for you?” Brian asks him one evening, after sex, when Pat’s brain is floating high on endorphins and he’s counting his lucky stars and there’s a tiny chance that he might actually be able to answer.

“I dunno.”

“ _C’mon_ , give me something. You don’t have to be specific. Just why it’s hot. Why you like getting me ready.”

Pat closes his eyes, even though it’s dark.

“Um.”

“I can guess, if you want,” Brian’s hand is gentle, coaxing. “D’you want me to guess? It’ll help me give you what you want, if I know what you like about it. Or I can tell you what I’m looking forward to?”

Pat presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. He shouldn’t need so much help with this. “Please.”

“I like when you do stuff to me slow. I love when you’re like, in charge of the pace, and I want it _so bad_ and I’m whining for it, and you know that you’d hurt me if you gave me more, so you just keep things steady. I like that I don’t have to balance it in my head, wanting something and being safe.”

“Fuck,” Pat pushes the heel of his hand onto his eyebrow. “You trust me a lot, kid. Sure I deserve that?”

“Yup.” Brian brushes the hand with his fingers, gentle. “Does it give you an actual headache, when we talk about this? You always push on your head.”

“No. Nothing hurts.”

“So like a metaphorical headache, then…?”

Pat snorts. “Sure. That’s one way to think about it.”

“Sorry,” Brian’s fingers brush over his knuckles again.

“Don’t be sorry. I just have my own things. I don’t even know the answers to your questions, half the time, and I gotta get down in there and try to root them out for you. It takes a minute. I have to push some other bullshit out of the way.”

“Any luck, then? Finding the answers?”

“I like it when you’re desperate to go faster and I’m holding you back. When you’re reckless.”

“When I’m _thirsty_.”

“Yeah.”

“Good. That’s an easy one. I can be impatient for you. _Please please_ hurry it up, daddy, I’m a big boy, I can take it, c’monnnn, give me…”

“Bri.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I know you’re concentrating. My baaaaaad. What else?”

Pat makes the sign of the cross, and confesses. “I like feeling like I’m ruining you.”

“ ‘Cause of the stretching?”

“No. I mean, yes, but also no. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I already told you, it goes back to normal. Just fine. Is it just ‘cause it’s dirty and wrong?”

“Yeah,” Pat sighs. “Always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

“Shhh,” Brian soothes. “That’s fine. So like, you want to fist me because it seems like a bad thing, and that makes you feel guilty, and then you feel horny for wanting it so bad anyway, and getting to do it, and you’re going to hell or whatever, and I’m just a sweet innocent kid who you’re dragging down with you. About right?”

“You know it kills me, when you just _say_ it like that.”

He giggles, the little shit. “I know. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“ _Please_ don’t be mad. It’s not like I’m complicated either, Patrick. Here. I’ll do me too. I want you to fist me because I like doing crazy shit with you, how you look at me after like I’m a wild sex god, like I can do _anything_ , like you can’t fucking believe what a horny little slut you got yourself tangled up with. And also, like, I just like new sensations. Especially ones that hurt just a little and also feel good. It makes me feel really _embodied_.”

“How do you just _say_ shit.”

“It’s _literally_ a turn-on for me, Pat Gill, that’s what I’m saying. Having no shame. Although actually, shame is also a turn-on. I think I have a lot of turn-ons, actually.”

“Never would have guessed.”

“Jerk,” Brian laughs. “You’re teasing me while I bare my soul, over here.”

“Sorry,” Pat says, but he doesn’t mean it. “I love your soul. It’s fun to tease. All right, here, here’s something for you: I also just love seeing you with something in your ass all day. Getting you ready for me. You’re so interesting to watch.”

“Oh my god Pat it is _very distracting_. I think about sex _all day_ …And _yes_ I know you’re going to say that’s normal but it’s _even more than normal_ , okay.”

“Yeah. It’s fun when I see your face change and I know you’re thinking about getting fucked. Especially if you’re in the middle of something. I love that I’m doing that to you.”

“You just love torturing me. Making me run around.  ‘Cause you get bored at work.”

It would be a lie, to deny this. He does get frustrated with whatever’s on his desk, and look up, and think of an idea: having Brian pick up something from the mailroom or run buy Pat a coffee or something like that.

“Stop being so cute, then. It makes you too fun to torture. Dyou want me to jerk you off, when you get too horny?”

“That’d help,” Brian says eagerly. “If you’d be willing? We can just do it quick, in the bathroom.” 

“Sure.” Pat strokes down Brian’s neck. “But if I’m gonna do something for you, you’ve gotta do something for me.”

“Anything,” Brian says easily, and his voice catches in that way.

Pat’s voice is a lusty whisper in Brian’s ear. “I’ll pin you up against the wall, baby boy, and jerk you off whenever you want. But first you’ve gotta tell me _exactly_ what it feels like, inside you. In detail.”

“Deal,” Brian shivers, and he makes good on the promise—

up against the tile, cheeks flushed, hair askew, pupils blown—

Pat’s fingers ghosting over him, teasing—

his stuttering whispers and sobs choked around his explanations of what it’s like, to walk around the office and the building and the city with the latest evil thing Pat’s shoved up his ass. His whispered, feverish reports are the stuff of Pat’s filthy dreams—

they’d also make pretty good product reviews, truth be told. Apparently, the softer ones are comfier, even when they’re awfully big, and they don’t make bending over such a humiliating risk. The glass, Brian loves, although he doesn’t admit it—he whines and cries about how hard it is to keep in—it’s so _heavy_ —but it holds the heat and stretches him in a way that Pat knows that Brian knows that Pat knows he likes, because whenever Pat threatens him with it he is _extra extra naughty_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat doesn’t tell Simone at first, because he wants this all to himself, this secret delightful game they’re playing to make Brian blush and buck in the bathroom stall under his fingers. But after about a week of graduating to larger sizes and letting Pat make him cry silent, horny tears, Brian tells her himself, in a fit of frustration, one night when they’re all at her place editing her script and eating her excellent homemade pad thai in exchange.

“Sorry, Simone, I just can’t _concentrate_ ,” Brian glares in exasperation. “Patrick’s trying to train my ass and it’s fucking with my brain. I _know_ there’s a good transition in here somewhere.”

Pat smiles quietly, because he knows that Brian is looking for trouble, and he’s going to find it.

Simone lays down the papers. “Eh, it’s cool. I’ll transition—or I won’t, and y’know, so what if there’s just a smash-cut to part two.” As she says this, she’s climbing wordlessly across the coffee table. Her hands push Brian’s knees together so she can easily straddle his lap.

Brian looks up in consternation as she settles her weight down on him. “Oh dear.”

“What’s wrong, baby?” she tuts. “Tell mama all about it. Daddy taking things too fast?”

“Too _slow,_ ” Brian whines breathily, and though the grinding makes his face do little grimacing motions, Pat thinks he’s probably happy for someone to complain to. “It’s gonna take a _year_ , I swear.”

“He just wants to be careful with you, little one,” she strokes his hair, gently, sweetly. “If he breaks you, you’re pretty hard to replace. Also I would kill him.”

“I’m not gonna _break_ ,” Brian fusses. “Just go, like, crazy, and miss all my deadlines for a month.”

Pat chuckles. “If you think telling Simone was a good choice for your time management, you’ve got another think coming.”

Simone swats at Pat, who’s too far away to be reached. “Shut it, you. I’m not gonna torment the poor boy. He’s a _treasure_. So adorable. I’d never hurt him. Never in a million years. What kind of person would do that.”

Brian bites his lip, nervously, and whispers _._ “Shit.”

“Yeah, you fucked up,” Pat murmurs. “Have fun next week, kid.”

Simone gets the last word, as always, although this evening that word is a strangled scream as she decides to fuck herself good and vigorous on Brian’s lap, while she makes Pat jerk himself off with the kid’s hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You have to _stop_ her,” Brian gasps, clutching at Pat’s shirt. And it’s only Tuesday.

“Shhh, jesus, kid, quiet,” Pat shoves a hand over his mouth, pauses, listens for a moment. The bathroom’s still, _seeming_ -empty, but he still crouches to check for feet before muscling Brian into a stall. After the incident with Jenna—

which had turned out _fine_ , but my God the embarrassment was nothing compared to the terror of Simone’s wrath—

—blessedly, Jenna was _cool_ , in Simone’s estimation, so thank Jesus fucking Christ on high in heaven—

after all that, Pat’s trying to be a little more careful. He lets go of Brian’s mouth.

“Please,” the kid begs, and he’s still grasping the shirt, so cute and desperate and fluffily scattered and his pupils are big beneath his glasses. “I can’t—”

Pat cuts him off with a kiss, because he just can’t fucking _resist_ , okay, and Brian makes an adorable, plaintive, frustrated sound into Pat’s mouth.

“—oh god, Pat, _please_ —please listen to me—she’s a monster, a monster, I can’t stand it.”

“What’s she doing to you, kid,” Pat smiles, wrapping an arm around him. “I can’t say I’ve noticed, so you’re holding it together pretty well.”

“She only does it when we’re alone,” Brian sobs. “But she _follows_ me.”

“Feeling you up?”

“She’s gonna _kill_ me, Pat.” He’s so delightfully worked-up—Simone must have gotten to him this morning, somehow. “She’ll do _anything._ She _bit my nipples_ in the conference room _,_ Pat. Because I was in there early. Because I was setting up the projector. _Because I had a pitch to present_. You’ve gotta stop her.”

Pat strokes the kid’s erection affectionately. “I appreciate that you think I have the power to do that.”

Brian bucks up. “Please. I need help, or I’m gonna get fired.”

“You’re not gonna get fired,” Pat smiles. “But it _isn’t_ very nice to make you this far gone at work. I’m honestly pretty surprised at Simone. She’s usually a model of discretion. You really drive her wild.”

“You’ll talk to her?”

“I’ll try to find a compromise. She’ll see reason. Or she’ll get pissed at me and then we’ll _both_ be fucked.”

“Thanks,” Brian sighs in relief, kissing him hard. “Misery loves company. Now, please jerk me off so I can get at least half-a-page written today.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The deal is struck, eventually. Simone drives a pretty hard bargain, but Pat doesn’t mind a few compromises of his own personal comfort to keep the kid happy. She leaves Brian alone at work, to squirm and settle down at the normal pace of a few times an hour, and she’s even pretty considerate about the cock cage she picks out, to make sure it’s relatively subtle in Pat’s preferred skinny jeans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the evenings, as soon as the plug’s out, Brian’s taken to running around the house stark naked, trying to work out his bottled-up energy and tempt Pat into _getting on with it already_ and maybe pay him back for all the day’s frustration. Pat quietly approves, although he bans Brian from trying to cook anything for risk of oil splatters, which means that they’re eating a lot of pasta and grilled cheese and other things that Pat knows how to manage. Pat _can_ follow a recipe, usually—he’s not a natural at it, but most recipes are idiot-proof—

still, it’s too hard to read instructions when a nubile body keeps hoving into view, all soft pale skin and bare as the day he was born, except the sparkle of wire frames around his eyes and the little wire chain around his neck where he keeps Pat’s key.

“Am I doing good?” Brian asks eagerly. He’s sitting on Pat’s lap, on his knees, face to face. He’s started mirroring Simone’s favorite posture (consciously or unconsciously) when he’s feeling especially _wicked_.

“Great,” Pat says, strained. It doesn’t quite _hurt_ , the pressure, but Christ it is distracting, especially when Brian is seizing Pat’s hands and wrapping them around his own ass and encouraging him to squeeze. “Kid. Stop it.”

“No,” Brian smirks, brattily. “I know you’re not supposed to come today. Simone told me not to let you.”

Pat groans. “So you’re just trying to kill me, then.”

“Nuh-uh. It’s _your fault_ this is taking so long. I said a week.”

“Bri— _Jesus_ —stop fucking _wig—_ agh—I have big hands, kid—”

 “I’m gonna tell Simone to make you hurry it up. She knows I’m ready. _She’d_ never take so long.”

“You’re wrong, kid.” Pat takes off his glasses, just to have something to do with his hands that’s not touching Brian.

“ _Nuh-uh_ ,” Brian sulks. “Simone trusts me. _She_ wouldn’t torture me.”

“That is so patently untrue that it’s bordering on— _kid_ —please—bordering on crazy. So _please_ get off my dick, because she loves torturing _both of us_ , and if I come without permission she’s gonna make sure I regret it.”

“Ughhhh,” Brian groans. “You two are the worst. The _worst._ I’m such a _nice_ boy. I’m _sweet_. How did I get caught up with you two sickos?”

“No—clue, kid. But Jesus fucking Christ get your hands off me— _please_ —”

Brian’s eyes narrow. “No. Deal with it, Pat Gill. Time to figure out who you’re more afraid of. Her or me.”

Patrick closes his eyes and says a prayer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I knew I’d be getting this call,” Simone sighs, and it’s very convincing, almost as if she’s not completely delighted. “I didn’t even _believe_ there were subs more stubborn than you, Pat, but you went and found one.”

“Yup,” Pat has his glasses in his hands, and he’s rubbing his face tiredly, and Brian is curled around him like a satisfied cat. “So whether he’s ready or not, tomorrow we’re trying it.”

“Uh-huh. So how’d he convince you?”

“You know how he did it,” Pat groans. “You know why I’m calling you.”

 _She wants you to say it,_ Brian hisses, loud enough Simone can surely hear. _And remember to tell her what I said._

“He got me off, Simone. I’m sorry. And I’m supposed to tell you—” he sighs “—he didn’t break the rules. He didn’t unlock it. He didn’t even really fucking _touch_ me.”

Simone laughs. “Poor Patty. Such an ungrateful little brat, trying to get you in trouble when you’re trying to _help_ him. Next time, sweetie, just let him face me on his own. Or at least call me _before_ you get in trouble.”

“Believe me, I called as soon as I was physically capable,” Pat lets his voice be flat, because Simone will find that funny. “And yeah, he’s an ass. So I guess we’ll settle up next time, you and I.”

“Oh, you better believe it. Have fun, boys.”  

_Click._

“Sorry I’m an ass,” Brian strokes his leg, a little contritely. “Was she real mad?”

“No,” he sighs, pets Brian’s hair. “She was ecstatic. She’s really gonna like whatever she’s got planned to do to me. As will you, I’d imagine. She’ll almost certainly make you watch, since it’s your fault.”

Brian shudders. “That seems fair. I’m nervous about that. I’ll probably cry.”

“Nah, I don’t think it’ll be quite as theatrical as the caning. Maybe.”

“Not that,” Brian gives a lop-sided grin. “I mean, maybe that. But I’ll cry because I’ll be sorry I got you in trouble. Basically you’re just taking a punishment, for me. Because I couldn’t be patient.”

Pat kisses him and whispers. “Cry away, but don’t stop getting me into trouble. It’s a turn on, you know. Being your whipping-boy.”

“I know,” Brian laughs. “For me too, actually. I think that’s why Simone likes us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian treats Pat extra nice, the next day, to make up for it. He’s so cheerful, bopping around, cleaning Pat’s house, naked and gorgeous and whistling his own little tunes. His preparations are deeply interesting to Pat. Brian doesn’t let him watch the enema— _look it’s just a thing I do sometimes, okay. It’s not necessary—_ but he does let Pat examine the avocado oil he eases into himself, along with a plug, and the shea-butter-and-rose-water cream he rubs into his skin, to keep himself soft and smelling faintly floral. Of course Brian makes his own essential oil lubricants. Of course. Brian picks the playlist, too—Azalea Banks and Pink and Sarah Vaughan, for after.

By the time they’re ready, done flirting and kissing and fucking and so forth, Pat is sparking with excitement and anxiousness.

 “You’re gonna tell me everything you feel,” Pat directs, as he gets ready. “ _Everything_.”

“Oh yes. I’ll make it hot for you.” Brian is coy, stroking. “Wait—aren’t you allergic—?

“Nitrile,” Pat snaps the wrist of the glove absently. He’s focusing, now. Breathing. Taking a minute. By rights, Brian should be the nervous one, he’s the one about to have a fist in his ass, but he seems like he always does—beautiful, splayed out on Pat’s bed—wide-eyed, and innocent—a conceit that will last maybe for two minutes, if that.

Pat finally lets Brian shimmy his hips up on that little wedge pillow he likes, and bring his legs back far.

 

~1~

“Ooh, it feels good, daddy” Brian murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Quite different, actually. Kinda clinical? Never been fingered with gloves before. It’s nice. Really smooth.”

“Good.”

“You can go to two fingers right away, you know.”

Pat strokes inside of Brian, gently. “I don’t even have the first one to the knuckle yet, kid.”

“I’m not made of glass,” he whines. “It’s not like I haven’t been practicing.”

“So saucy,” Pat curls his fingertip, pressing in and out. Brian is going to want him to hurry, because that’s how Brian is, but Pat is just enjoying him, hot and pliant, and making sure he works in as much lube as he’ll need. “The doe-eyed virgin thing you do is going right out the window today, isn’t it?”

“I can try,” Brian murmurs. “But it’s hard to conjure innocence when you’ve been taking it hard in the ass all week.”

“Better drop it then,” Pat strokes inside him. “You’ll probably lose your concentration.”

 

 

~2~

Two fingers isn’t enough to make Brian moan, not right now, although he does laugh brattily when Pat curls into his prostate and jerks his little hips up, _forcing_ Pat’s fingers down, hard.

“Stop it,” Pat scolds. “You can’t buck around like that.”

“Fiiiiiine,” Brian pretends to sigh. “You’re just such a _tease_ , Patrick.”

“Jerk yourself off or something,” Pat directs. “And tell me how it feels.”

It’s more or less normal, scissoring him open—it _is_ easier, since he’s been so well-prepped—they fuck a lot, of course, but not like _every day_ usually, and not always _this_ way. It’s kind of a production.

“It feels small,” Brian complains. “You’re making me into a size queen, Pat, I want _more_. I can barely feel— _ah_!”

Pat smirks. “Uh-huh.”

Lately it’s become almost routine, Pat bending Brian over and quickly opening him up, finding new types of sounds and squirms. He can pry so many dimensions of experience out of Brian, just with this _one thing_ , just with his fingers. He would never have thought to try it at all, without Brian’s goading.

“Are you still _in_ there?”

“You are _really_ wild tonight,” Pat brushes his free hand along Brian’s dick. “Let it go, all that smirking. Just enjoy yourself, all right? I’m moving along.”

“Okay, okay,” Brian acquiesces, and lets his smile become a little more sincere. “I just get impatient. Sorry.”

 

                                                                                                                                                                         

~3~

“ _That_ feels good,” Brian sighs, satisfied, when Pat slides in a third finger. Prep or no, this is _tight_ , and Pat moves careful, watches Brian’s face.

He’s still, now, because Pat asked him to be—sweaty, but no longer wiggling—when Pat strokes, though, he can see a flash of something—something hungry and hot and fiercely excited—in Brian’s eyes.

“Yeah? Feeling it?”

“Yeah,” Brian grunts, biting his lip. “It’s good. _Fuck_ , Pat, you are _ruining_ me for anyone else, you know that?”

The way he says it makes Pat’s shoulders flinch, at the same time the bright crackle of lust rushes across his neck. Brian notices, he thinks, but doesn’t relent—digs in his heels, and tries to fuck himself down harder.

“I feel _empty_ without you inside of me, now,” Brian pants breathily.

“My, my,” is all Pat can say, because the shamelessness before him is fighting with his demons—and winning, it’s winning.

“I sit at work all day and think about you fucking me,” Brian’s propped up, and _staring_ at him, and his face is red. He’s been biting his lip, Pat thinks. “Do you know that? _All_ day. Every day. Even when you haven’t put anything in my ass, I just look over at you and think about what you could do to me. What you’re _going_ to do to me. With your cock. Your fingers. Your toys.”

Pat’s dick twitches hard, and he swallows. He _did_ tell Brian to talk, but fuck, it’s a little distracting.

“Do you know why I took that one out on Wednesday morning, Patrick? The metal one?”

“No,” Pat says, tentatively. He remembers it being fun going in—it was cold, so that was fun—but when Brian quietly told him it wasn’t working for him he just shrugged and said _let’s take the day off then_ and didn’t pry too much further, ‘cause the kid’s expression looked so oddly devastated.

“Because it kept _slipping out_ , Patrick. Do you know what it’s like, to stand in the break room with lube dripping down your thighs and try to figure out how to go tell your boyfriend you’re too _loose_ for his toys?”

“Jesus,” Pat closes his eyes, but only for a second, because he needs to pay attention. He needs to look. He also needs to shut Brian up, pretty soon, or else he’s going to become unable to keep up his part of the deal, here.

“Dyou know why I looked so _sad_ , Patrick? When you said it was all right?” 

Okay, whatever this is it’s going to make Pat flush with shameful lust so bad that he’s gonna be undone. Brian understands the basic premise of storytelling well enough to make sure that the answer to this question is fouler and sharper and hornier than the last. Pat needs to _concentrate,_ or he’s going to choke. He’s so fucking glad he has something to focus on, because he thinks they might be ready for another finger. “No, Bri. Why?”

“Because I wasn’t trying to ask you for a _day off,_ Patrick,” Brian whispers. “I didn’t want to _rest_. Your little whore wanted you to shove in something _bigger_.”

It’s a lot, that, and it makes sense, and Pat appreciates it, but he’s sliding in his pinkie very carefully, and finds that he can master himself enough to just murmur, “That’s the idea, baby boy. ”

“You don’t even _know_ ,” Brian throws his head back on the pillow, defeated by Pat’s nonreaction.

 

 

~4~

It’s a lot, Pat knows right away, when they’re at four. Brian doesn’t even have to tell him anything. He’s straining and very still, in the way that he gets when he’s in pain and also he likes it.

“That hurts you,” he observes.

“Yessir,” Brian breathes. “But it’s good.”

“Breathe through it,” he instructs, moving only the littlest bit. “Tell daddy what you feel. Don’t lie.”

“Burning,” Brian says immediately, “Tight. _Hurts_ but not like—mmmm—not bad. Just like—all—stretched, pressure—it’s intense—I want you to touch me—please—”

“I will,” Pat soothes. “But I’m not gonna jerk you yet. I don’t want you too get too excited. I need you to pay attention, okay?”

“Okay,” Brian whimpers. Pat moves his other hand to rest on Brian’s dick, lightly. The little breaths are fascinating.

He waits until his featherlight touches have relaxed the kid a little, and it doesn’t feel like he’s pushing against fierce resistance. “Can I move a bit, babe?”

“Yessir.” The answer’s floaty, like Brian gets when things are hurting him in the right way. It gives Pat some confidence to stroke a bit, just one fingertip, in the direction of Brian’s prostate. The gasp is worth it.

“You like that.”

Brian bites his lip and nods. It’s odd to Pat, how he feels like he’s touching Brian more than they ever do, and also like he’s further away.

“Can you take more?”

“I—I don’t know—”

Pat withdraws, and Brian bites his lip again, disappointed, but quiet.

“I’m just adding more lube, babe. I’m not giving up. Talk to me.”

“It’s good,” Brian says, softly. “I’m enjoying it.”

“Yeah?” Pat strokes up and down his length, gently, almost soothing. “Doesn’t hurt?”

“It’ll hurt a bit. But I like it.”

“Living up to your past exploits?”

Something passes across Brian’s face, a little flit of emotion. “I actually haven’t done this before. Not successfully.”

Pat pauses the two fingers he has back in the kid’s ass. “Huh. You seemed so confident.”

“Confidence is everything,” Brian admits. “Sorry for leading you on a bit. I was nervous. But I wanted to try.”

“You have a funny way of being nervous, kid.”

“Yeah,” Brian sighs, as Pat works his fingers back in. “That feels better. That’s four?”

“Yup.”

“Good,” Brian grunts. “It’s good. I think we can do this, actually. Thank you for—for being slow—last time I tried I—I couldn’t work myself up fast enough—couldn’t get all the way—”

Some of the frantic energy makes a little sense, now. The bucking, the hunger. Pat can see it clearly, when he’s got four fingers slowly working in and out of the kid and he’s starting to see the strain. It makes sense. The little twinge of fear in Brian’s gut. That he might not be able to do this. That he might, for once, fail in giving Pat what he wants. That he wouldn’t live up to his own hype. That he wouldn’t be able to take it all, laughing and horny and endlessly fuckable, like always. Fear makes Brian very fierce, like he’s got to scare it off with his own reckless wildness.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Pat murmurs. “And I don’t care where we get. It’s already been—god, it’s already been perfect. You’re fucking perfect. Just that you let me try. We can stop, if you want.”

Brian shudders. “But you’re so close.”

“To what?” Pat pulls his hand up Brian’s dick, revels in the gasp. “This is what I want. To push you so far out that I can see what you’re really like.”

“I can go further,” Brian resolves, like a prayer. “Go for it.”

 

~5~

The moan is drawn out, long, and lovely. Pat can feel the kid’s pulse, in his fingers. It’s hot— _literally_ hot—

“That’s about half, babe.”

“ _Fuck_ , Pat. I can feel your _bones_.”

Pat chuckles. “Is that a good thing?”

“Fucking _shit_ it’s amazing. God. God. _God_.”

“How does it feel?”

“That’s— _fuck_ —Pat—it’s hard to compose like—adjectives okay—can you stroke me? It’s not—you’re not hurting me—”

“Of course.”

“ _Shit_ yes. Jesus. Okay. Okay. God— _god_ —I owe Connor an apology—he was totally right, this is _amazing_ —Connor you fucking cocksucker, you were a bloody asshole but you were _right_ —I _would_ like this—”

“What does it feel like, kid?”

“Like—okay this is—really gay but—all your _energy_ is in your hands Pat—like all your—I dunno—” He pants, like he’s run a marathon, and can’t finish speaking, but Pat kind of understands.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” Pat confesses. “No one’s ever trusted me this much.”

“I—trust you absolutely—Pat Gill—please— _please_ stroke harder—I want to come with you like—like this—”

He doesn’t move his hand much, the one inside Brian, but Brian’s own movements make himself gasp. The kid smells like almonds and rosewater. He’s still and also writhing, somehow, at once. He’s been a half-dozen different things for a half-dozen different days. He’s worked so hard, to give this to Pat. And he was afraid, all along.

“God, I want you to enjoy this, Bri. Tell me what to do.”

“Just stroke me—” Brian gasps. “Please—stroke me until I come? It won’t—I don’t think—take long.”

It doesn’t take long, but it’s not quick, either. Brian enjoys himself, and feels _everything_ so strongly, and tells Pat everything he feels, and squeaks in pain and pleasure both, before he finally gives up the ghost and comes in a rush of tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Was it everything you imagined?”

Pat thought Brian was already asleep, but apparently the stillness and even breathing were just a different type of wakefulness, curled into his hairy chest.

“I don’t have enough imagination for something like that,” Pat says, gently. “It was perfect.”

“Good,” Brian sighs. “I liked it, too. More than I expected.”

“Why do you push yourself so hard for me?” Pat can’t resist asking.

“ ‘Cause I love you.” Brian says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- fisting (and lots of anal penetration / preparation),  
> \- lots of butt plugs, including at work, & long-term wear,  
> \- femdom and M/M/F dynamics (heeeey Simone),  
> \- orgasm denial & chastity devices,  
> \- a few uses of explicit language that are a bit dicey.
> 
>  
> 
> for some reason the dynamics on this chapter caused me great anguish -- mostly it was finding the story, and not the sex itself, but i did rely rather heavily on some various sources for fisting trip reports, including this excellent one: https://broadly.vice.com/en_us/article/vbjpxd/getting-anally-fisted-for-the-first-time


	22. Romans 1:1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simone is pretty fuckin' tense. brian (& pat!) help her chill out, a bit. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _ave Cesaria, chapeau pour la route à pieds / nue est, et nue était, Diva aux pieds nus, restera_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hai simone also has a third-person-limited perspective in this fic? who knew

Simone is totally over this week. In a big way. It was bullshit.

Travel. Deadlines. Her mother. Jenna being away. Taxes. It’s all too much.

So when Pat calls her on Thursday, she lets it go to voicemail.

 

> _Hey Simone. It’s Pat.  
>  (and Brian!!)  
>  Wanted to know if you’re free this weekend. Give me a call. _

Simone rubs her eyes with her wrist. She’s fucking _tired_. Fuck. But maybe Pat needs her, so she picks up the phone.

“Sup hos. What you need?”

“Nothing,” Pat says, and he has that gentle voice. She hates. that. voice. It means she sounds cranky. “Thought you might want to get together this weekend. That’s all.”

“For sex?” Simone’s blunt. That’s her thing. “I’m worn out, kids. So unless you need me, play without me.”

“We don’t need anything, Simone. Just checking in,” Pat says, and if it were just him, the phone call would be over. He’d back off, because she asked him to. And then she could just relax.

But Brian’s on the line and he cuts in.

“We could take care of _you_. If you wanted?” He hesitates. “I like a certain kind of scene, when I’m tired. You could let go. You wouldn’t have to think.”

Simone laughs, because he’s so. damn. cute. “I don’t do that, Brian. I’m a simple gal. I like long hair on boys and short hair on girls and being on top. You little switchies never make sense to me.” 

“He doesn’t mean quite like that,” Pat assures, in his reasonable rumble. “He just means, we can bring the scene to you. Something nice and easy where you don’t have to do the work. You can watch, you can join in. We can pamper you a little. He’s got an idea.”

“Let the boy pitch it, then,” Simone directs, “But the answer’s probably no. I’m too tired to hit anyone.”

She says this real stern. Even though there’s interest stirring below her gut. So the answer’s probably yes, actually. ‘Cause Brian’s gonna try harder, if he knows he’s up against some resistance. That’s how the boy is.

“No hitting,” Brian says quickly. “I’ll be good. _Really_ good. Not like usual. I’ll do anything you want. You can just use me how you like. I’ll even be quiet. No talking. No whining. Promise.”

“Pat’s been training you,” she murmurs.

“Yes’m,” she can hear Pat’s smile. “As long as he has the right props, he can do it.”

“Props.” Simone closes her eyes. “So what’s the cast list, actor boy.”

He pauses. “How’s your Latin?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          

 _Go for a Roman legionary vibe_ , Brian said. Simone doesn’t have much in her closet that fits the bill. Red seems right. A dress. A wide leather belt, sandals to match. Jewelry should be gold, probably heavy. Ah, fuck it. She’ll braid her hair even. Fancy it up a little. Because Brian said…

 _Try to feel like a conqueror_. _Like, you’re sort of bored? Because you’re out in Gaul, which is the middle of nowhere ruling over weird Celt people who don’t even speak Latin. You eat meat every day and servants feed you grapes and you’re looking for diversions._

Pat’s apparently an old friend. A centurion on his way to her outpost. He’s sent word that he’s passing through and would love to dine with her, bring her a gift. He thinks she’ll like it.

 

 

 

 

 

 _“Salve_ ,” Pat smiles, a little wryly, as he opens the door with Brian in tow.

They’ve got dinner. It’s takeout Italian, which makes Simone snort. Close enough. But before she can even make a joke, Pat pulls off Brian’s hoodie, and—

Brian’s already _dressed_.

He’s in a linen tunic that ends at his knees, gathered with a simple cord. His hands are bound in front of him with a length of rope. He’s got a collar on. A fingerwidth band of beaten metal, not too shiny.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Simone says. “Did you ride the subway all the way here like that?”

Brian just looks at his feet, and doesn’t blush, and doesn’t answer. He’s barefoot, she realizes.

“More or less,” Pat’s smile is so. wicked. Whenever he’s around Brian. It’s a side of him that Simone doesn’t always see. She likes it. “He knows to keep his hands out of sight. And his head down. I’ll go change, then.” He ruffles Brian’s hair. “Be good, boy.”

Brian doesn’t look up, or move, or flinch, or tremble, or speak, as Pat leaves.

Simone is captivated. She’s burning with need. She. has. to. touch. him. To see what he does.

“What’re you, then” she says, yanking on the rope that leads from his hands. He doesn’t react.

It’s fabulous. How simple. A burlap tunic and a little rope and suddenly she’s _there_ , transported. Her old friend Patrick is in town, and thank god, because Gaul is. fucking. boring. At least Pat always has the best toys. This boy doesn’t look like a Celt. His hair is light and pretty, and he’s slim and clean. Maybe a little simple-minded.

She tugs again. “What are you? Where did your master get you from?” He doesn’t respond, and she is delighted at the chance to slap him. “ _Speak_ , boy.” She slaps again, and loves the way it tugs against his rope.

“He doesn’t speak, Simone,” Pat chides, sliding into view. Ooh, mama likey. You’re not gonna get Pat in a toga, but this is good enough. The cloak is cute, where it gathers at his shoulders. Simone likes a man in a headband. And the sandals are a nice touch. “At least, he doesn’t speak anything civilized. Yet. He won’t learn from you hitting him.”

“Hmmm. What is he?”

“A Teuton. A gift. I picked him up on my last campaign. I thought you’d like something a little exotic to keep you company. Your last letter was quite annoyed with the local slaves.”

“He’s pretty,” she admits, “but if he’s dumb, what’s the use?”

“He’ll learn quickly,” Pat strokes Brian’s head. “He’s clever. I’ve taught him a few words.” He presses fingers onto Brian’s cheek and commands, “ _Open_.”

“Hardly a tough one,” Simone says, watching with interest as Pat presses his fingers in, and Brian sucks them quietly. His eyes dart up from the ground, then, to Pat’s face. The kid’s so. fucking. good. He looks like he’s waiting for instructions. Like he doesn’t entirely understand what’s going on. But he has some idea.

“Let’s say you try him out this evening, and if you like him you can keep him. Just try not to bruise him up too much, in case I have to sell him.”

Simone curls her fingers in Brian’s hair. It feels smooth and smells sweet, like sandalwood. He lets his head be turned easily. “Thank you, Patrick. For the gift. I should be more gracious. I’ve spent too long with these fucking Celts.”

“It’s no trouble, Simone. It’s dull, out here.” Pat takes her arm. “But first, let’s eat.”

Pat taps the boy on the shoulder and he scurries.

Brian pulls out the food and lays it out for them—he knows where to find bowls, utensils, cups, and it doesn’t take him long, even with his bound hands. Simone picks out a bottle of wine and Pat opens it for her, while Brian pours them water.

“ _Stop_.” Pat barks, and Brian does. _Ooh_ , how he jumps.

Something in Simone jumps too, when Pat frowns.

“Apologies for his manners, Simone. He’s a little coarse.”

What’d he do? Oh he needs to pour for ladies first. Simone realizes this, as Pat seizes the kid’s ear and twists hard and reaches out and slowly pours the glass of water over his sweet little head.

 _Oh my_ , delicious, how he flinches, as the cold runs down and he looks up wide-eyed, trying to understand.

Pat presses the pitcher back into his hands, and indicates Simone’s glass. He gets it right, this time. Then he kneels on the floor, while they chat, ignoring him. They talk about the food. Simone tells Pat where she found the wine, and how she though all merlots were bullshit until this one. Pat asks about her cousin, who she says is doing better, thanks, but still living in that godawful hole in Cleveland.

It’s hard to concentrate, though. Her eyes keep flitting to the pretty thing kneeling on her floor. His knees must be pricking, by now. At least starting to. How long will he wait for them? As long as he has to, she supposes.

“Should I feed him something?”

“He’s already eaten today,” Pat sounds unconcerned. _Ooh-oh-oh,_ these two.

Her fingers drum, itching to touch. “I’d like to. May I?”

“He’s yours to spoil,” Pat smiles. “He has a sweet tooth, I warn you.”

“Oh?” She steps off her stool, grabs for any candy in her usual bowl. She’s got chocolate, although it’s pretty dark. “Maybe he’ll take to this. Come here, pet.” He doesn’t look up at that— _fuck_ he’s good—so she raps sharp on the table. When his eye bounces up, she crooks her finger.

Brian comes close quickly, easily, lets her pet his hair. “ _Open_ ,” she directs and he does, holds his mouth wide while she presses her little square of chocolate into it. He eats it, watching her face. “Do you like it, boy?” Blank.

Pat coughs. “ _Good_?” and Brian nods right away, vigorously.

Simone breaks off another piece. “Another?”

Brian is watching her fingers. It’s so fun, to press the candy in, to watch him fight to balance shy with greedy.

“Suck,” she instructs, and Brian does, letting her hold it in his mouth while he swirls his tongue around. It makes her tingle, in the best way. She makes her voice arch. “I _thought_ he might know that word, Patrick.”

“Hmm.” Pat smiles. “If you want him to use his tongue, be my guest. It won’t put off my appetite.”

Simone. does. want, thanks. She pulls Brian head up by the hair, kisses the rest of the chocolate out of his mouth. He’s bitter and sweet, just how she likes. She curls her fingers rough around his chin, and talks to him in soft tones, while her fingers dig in.

“There’s more where that came from.” She waves it. He watches. She tugs the little ring on the front of his collar, pulls him below the table. He finds his way between her legs. Easily, eagerly.

Pat watches her with a smile, as she settles down. Brian is— _ah!_ —too enthusiastic right at first, but some shoving and pressing and scolding settles him down. So Simone can finish her dinner.

 

 

 

 

 

Pat leans back languidly, watching Simone sip her wine. She’s given up on interesting conversation. Brian’s too talented for that. He knows her cunt too well. He knows just how she likes him to lick, starting flat and slow up the sides, then straight down the middle. He doesn’t fuck around too much, swirling and teasing. Simone’s not that kind of girl. He’s learned—mostly from her crushing down onto his face and barking orders at him—that once he’s got going, she doesn’t want him to back off. His job is to suck hard on her clit and fuck her with his tongue and keep doing it until she comes, sometimes a few times, until he’s tired and crying and his face is wet and red and the blade of his tongue loses its skill so he stutters when he begs for a break.

Ooh. lordy. she’s getting worked up. _already._

She can’t take him that far, not now. She’s got so much she _wants._ She can’t let this sweet little thing make her give it all up at her kitchen table.

“Enough,” she wedges her foot on his shoulder, and shoves back. He bangs against Pat’s legs. “You’re done, down there.”

“Don’t tell me he isn’t talented,” Pat says smugly.

She smoothes her hair. “He’s good. Glad that tongue isn’t completely useless.”

“Shall we?” he stands, offering an arm solicitously, to escort her to the bedroom. As they saunter off, their little slave quickly attends to the dishes. Fuck, Simone could get used to this.

 

 

 

 

Kissing Pat is fucking stellar. Always is. That man likes. to. kiss. He kisses like a TV movie, like you’re not going to get to see any tits so this kiss better fucking _count._ Simone can bite against him, clash their lips, if she wants, or she can open her mouth and let him lick his tongue into hers, sweet and slow.

Today, she lets him do the work. It’s hard to explain, how good it is, the feeling of hot breath, the small sounds of pleasure, the way Pat pulls off, sometimes, to lick at her neck or kiss her cheeks or just, sometimes, brush back her hair and stare into her face like she’s the only thing that exists.

It’s sweeter, even, when he noses by her ear to kiss the soft skin, and she looks past him and lets her eyes focus for a second, and realizes Brian is kneeling again. My. Lord. These. Two.  

Pat hasn’t noticed, though. He’s enamored with her, and his hands are under her dress, unhooking her bra. He’s good at that, one smooth motion, but he lets his fingers linger on her shoulderblades, rubbing, soothing.

“He’s good at massages,” Pat offers. “You’re tense, _domina_.” 

“But then I’d have to stop kissing you, _centurion_.”

“Mmm,” Pat smiles, and there’s a hint of something goofy in it that he quickly masters. Brian, she thinks, probably doesn’t tolerate giggling. “Give him just a quick moment with your shoulders. You’ll find it’s worth it.”

“All right. Let me get this off.”

She unbuckles her belt, yanks it off. The dress slides off as fast as it went on, in one smooth pull. It feels wonderful, strange, exotic to leave her jewelry on, her gold hoops and gold chain. She and Brian match, in their way. Pat presses her into a chair and tugs on Brian to get him into position, behind her.

Brian’s hands _are_ good, she finds. He presses in, gentle at first, with the heel of his hands, just touching all of her skin as if to introduce their bodies to each other. He trails his fingers, softly, along the crest of her shoulders. Then he’s pressing, hard and sharp, but cleverly, with his thumbs. It starts at the spine and works its way out. His thumbs trail confidently along lines of muscle, working and rubbing. The boy puts his back into it, she’ll give him that.

Meanwhile, Pat’s kneeling below her, she realizes. His sinewy forearms first hug, then almost lift her, wrap around her thighs, pull him forward so she’s sitting as much on him as on the chair. He’s positioning her to rest his warm, rough chin against her cunt. Oh _mama_ yes.

“She needs—good boy,” Pat interrupts himself, as Brian steals away quickly to grab a pillow. He shoves it behind her hips, so she can recline comfortably. They’re so fucking. sympatico. It’s sexy as hell.

She finds it’s almost too much, to lie still, while Brian’s fingers press and prod and Pat’s tongue licks and laps. Fuck. There’s nothing more delicious, she thinks, than the way Pat looks up at her. His dark hair falls messy around his face, and his eyes are dark too, lidded. He’s not like Brian—stubbly, for one thing—but also just _different_. Not just his tongue, his lips, his sucking—fuck—it’s also how he stares so much more, how he almost glares at her with his burning eyes, like he’s seeing a show, or maybe putting one on. He drags his tongue slowly and stares and she feels like she’s the only thing that matters in the world.

But. God. are Brian’s fingers good. He squeezes gently up her neck, massages with strong fingertips into her scalp. It’s so good. It’s _so_ fucking good. It feels as obscene, what he’s doing, as the boy she has down below. She moans in pleasure, and moans again when Pat chuckles into her cunt. Brian rubs her temples and starts to let his fingers work their way back down, as if he’s going to do the whole thing again, in reverse, starting with the crown of her head.

“How long can you two do this,” Simone groans. “Because I haven’t got any plans tomorrow.”

“Relax,” Pat murmurs. “Don’t think so much. Just live outside of time for a minute.”

Simone does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s nothing left of tenseness in her shoulders when she shrugs the slaveboy off. “I want to kiss you again, Patrick. Let me taste you.”

“Of course,” Pat says rising. They fall into a kiss, Simone standing to meet him, and Brian quietly retreating. Eventually, she pulls away, and turns, refreshed, to her new toy. “What’ll you do with him, now?”

She unties Brian’s hands, so she can strip him. The tunic slips off easily. He’s pretty, when he’s bare, as always. The collar does _so much_. Damn. She fingers it, and thinks how she needs to get one of these for Pat. It’s so nice, how it catches the light. It just looks like jewelry, really, although a bit odd. She could imagine him wearing it in the office. Just a simple little metal band, with a little circle to lead him, if she needs. Not really for tugging. Just suggestion. The decoration of a favored slave.

Simone glances down. Brian’s not hard, not soft. The sweet little curly hairs give her a _wicked_ idea. Would he let her? “Patrick, may I…?” No. It’s too fucking weird, to ask that. There’s no way he’d let her…

She cocks an eyebrow, thoughtfully, at Brian. He holds her glance, for a second. He fuckin _winks_ , he does. _Try me._

“What’s wrong?” Pat puts a hand on her shoulder. “What would you like, _domina_? I can put him in anything.”

“No, no. He’s lovely. I just keep mine clean-shaven.”

Pat’s grip tightens. He’s nervous, at that. She feels him look, see Brian’s non-reaction, loosen. “Huh. Well, to each their own. Shall I try to tell him what to do?”

“I’ll do it,” Simone says, immediate. Her hands are already on Brian’s skin, eager, touching him. He’s so pliant.

“I hate to give you a chore,” Pat says, from behind. He’s tentative, but Simone can feel Brian’s pulse beating fast. His face might be blank, uncomprehending, but his treacherous little heart is giving him up. _Ooh_ , this is going to be fun.

“Get him in the bathroom,” Simone directs. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Pat hesitates, for only a second. Looks from one to the other of them, checks. Then shrugs and _lifts_ Brian up, hips on his shoulder, like he’s nothing, and follows her instructions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian’s ass must be cold, on the marble countertop, but it’s a good angle for her to see. Pat pushes his knees apart.

“A straight razor would be less anachronistic,” Simone whispers to no one, but is happy when it makes Brian shudder with pleasure. This kid loves danger. And historical accuracy. “But I don’t have one.”

“Just roll with it,” Pat murmurs to her. “I dunno if Romans had lube, either, but we’re definitely not going without.”

She can _see_ that Brian is about to open his mouth and probably school Pat about anthropological research into Caesar’s bedroom practices, so she taps him sharply.

“Slave. Listen up. You’re going to be _still_ , you hear?” To punctuate this, she presses his thighs down hard, to the counter. “If you fidget,” she illustrates, wiggling her body, “you’re going to get hurt.” She mimes a smack.

“He knows ‘Be still,’” Pat says, petting his hair.

“You really _have_ taught him all the important words,” Simone smirks, as Pat takes Brian’s wrists and brings his hands up to rest on his head, well out of the way. Another nice touch. These two.

It’s…wildly ahistorical…but Simone busts out her clippers first, to get things shorn down to a nice even level. Brian is very good, quite still, while she wets him with a warm cloth and buzzes the hairs down. Pat has a hand on his knee.

Then, the good part.

Her best shaving oil is French and smells like almonds, and the subtle lather feels right when she rubs it into his skin. She lets his body get used to her fingers, so he won’t jump. He hums a gentle little tune, while she strokes him, letting her know he’s all right.

She starts. Her razor is good—sharp, new—and she shaves a smooth clean line down his left thigh, almost to the knee. He’s very still, but breathing. She can hear him breathing very deliberately. In. Out.

It’s so very _good_ , drawing the razor down his skin, leaving it smooth in the wake. She wonders if he’s done this before. Probably, knowing Brian. But still. The hairs here are pretty light. It might be the first time, really.

She touches the brush of hair above his penis. “Bring him closer to the edge, Pat.”

Pat does, pulling his hips for him, scooting the boy to the edge. It’s easy to reach, now, to stroke until a lather forms again and slide her razor slickly down. She rinses carefully, between strokes. His skin is lovely, really. Soft, yielding. He barely trembles, just sits and moves as directed.

Without asking, her hand strokes his chest, and he nods, imperceptibly. She lathers that too—there’s not much hair, he’s a sweet smooth little thing. But he lets her pull her razor down it carefully and make it fresh and soft.

“I wish I could do his legs, too,” she sighs.

Pat looks at Brian, pets down his chest, thoughtfully. “Seems like an awful lot of work. He’s supposed to be a gift for you.”

“ _This_ is a gift,” Simone sighs happily, running a hand over his smooth chest, brushing his nipples along the way. “I am _enjoying_ this, Patrick.”

“Then go ahead,” Pat smiles. “He’s yours.”

Her body thrills, with that. With how Brian doesn’t move, or speak, or give any sign of protest.

“This’ll only take a minute,” she smiles, and rinses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Simone lets Brian shower, to get off the suds—and finish up any spots she missed. He handles the razor with agility, and she thinks he might well have done this before. Of course. It never pays to underestimate Brian.

At her direction, Pat helps her rub soothing gel in to all Brian’s newly smooth places. It’s a fancy one, Korean, made of snails or something, and she likes it because it never stings. She wants to be gentle with him, today. He’s doing so much for her. Brian squirms pleasantly under their twin touches, seeming to enjoy himself.

Especially when Pat runs a finger up his ass and plays with him, just for a second, pressing in.

“He’s how you like him, now, _domina_?”

“He’s lovely. Let’s take him back to the bedroom, _centurion_.”

Pat kisses her, first, before he clips a lead to the little collar and presses it into her hand. “There you are, then.”

Brian hops down and follows, quick, soft feet behind her, as Pat’s arm draws around her hip.

 

 

 

 

 

Simone hops on the bed, expecting the boys to follow, but Pat stops Brian with a hand. He strips off his own clothes—his shirt at least, cloak, rips off his sandals—and shoves them roughly into Brian’s arms. The boy scurries off to hang them up. Again. Fucking. Nice. Touches. Such panache. She should be taking notes.

Pat kisses her again, horizontal now, and strokes down her bare breasts. “I’ve been ignoring these. May I?”

“Yes,” she sighs in pleasure, as his fingers ghost over them. He mouths them, gently. Squeezes, with only his fingertips. Flicks a thumb over her nipples. It’s gentle at first, but builds in fervor, like everything Pat does.

The tentative hand on her foot surprises her, makes her kick out.

“ _Oof_ ,” the boy flinches back, and Simone yelps “Sorry!!” because she knows she got him, probably in the nose.

“ _Ignosce! ignosce, domina,_ ” she hears murmured Latin, from the end of her mattress. What a fucking nutcase, this kid is.

“He’s fine,” Pat dismisses. “He’s just bored.”

And it seems that Pat’s right, because Brian sneaks his hand right back to her ankle, and when she doesn’t pull away or kick again, he starts to _kiss her toes._

“Fuuuuuck! Patrick,” she throws her head back. “He— _god”_ It’s a lot, the two of them, and she has to fight to speak, around the touches. “I didn’t even— _hell_ —are you taking notes, Patrick?”

She feels Pat’s smile, but her body keeps getting it confused with Brian licking up the arch of her foot, deliberately. Indulging herself, she lets her other foot tangle in his hair, grip his pretty curls with her toes. Frankly Simone didn’t know she was into this, but she is _living for it_ , the intoxicating feeling of his soft lips and sweet little tongue, perfectly subservient, sucking on her as if he was born to do it.

“He likes you,” Pat laughs against her breast. “Or he’s smart enough to know that you need to like him.”

“I _adore_ him, Patrick— _Ooh!_ That tickles, boy.” She shoves at his neck, gently, with her foot and he murmurs that little phrase again and returns to sucking with fewer sneaking ticklish fingers.

“What next, _domina_?” Pat asks, ever the gentleman. “What would you like him for? He can lick you again. You can ride him. You can fuck him, however you please. Or shall I send him to sleep? You and I can just have the evening to ourselves, if you’re done with him. It’s all the same to me.”

The little shiver in Brian’s busy mouth is nice, because it reminds her that, of _course_ , it isn’t all the same to him. Poor little thing can’t bear to be left out, she knows that. And she already promised to be nice. But Simone…she can’t resist…they _told_ her to do whatever she wanted, didn’t they?

“A night with you sounds divine, _centurion_. You’re so rarely in town. I want to be a good hostess.” She can’t resist the grin, though, at her own teasing. “And also, I want to fuck your brains out.”

“Lovely,” Pat’s grin mirrors her own. The evil in her is in him too, at least there’s that. “Shall I send him out?”

Brian stifles a whimper.

“ _Someone’s_ getting pretty good at Latin,” Simone says, scathingly, shoving her toe into his cheek, pushing him off.

“Told you he was clever.” Pat’s voice is dry, dark. “If you prefer, I can have him stand in the corner and watch. Or just have him stay on the floor. Your knees can stand it, can’t they, boy?”

“ _Si placet,_ ” Brian sighs, and it sounds so sweet and sad and obedient, and Simone _really_ wants to know what pathetic little phrases this kid has committed to heart, all for her, and for his own strange twisted amusement.

“I think that means yes.”

She lets him get all the way to the floor and settle himself, sadly, before she relents. “No, no, Patrick, don’t send him away. I want to fuck you, but I _need_ to touch him. He can just lay back and let me. I don’t need anything from him.”

“I can fuck you on top of him, but he’ll probably get confused, Simone. He’s usually expected to do something.”

“Then tie him up,” Simone shrugs.

 _Ooh_ , how the boy shivers.                      

 

 

 

 

 

Pat ties something fancy, and he does it _quick_ , too. Brian is having a good influence on him. And my. heavens. the boy’s arms are flexible. To look at his face, it’s not even a strain, to have them tied so tight behind his back, parallel lines cutting across wrists, elbows, upper arms, with nice tidy knots for spacing in-between. He doesn’t need much space. Simone wonders what kinds of positions these two can get up to, when they’re really going at it.

“You’re getting good at your ropework,” Simone approves, as Pat finishes checking his knots.  

“Thanks,” Pat dips his chin, a bit shy. Then, he puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder, moves his face close. He whispers, but Simone’s near enough to hear it. “The hemp’s a little rough, Bri. If you struggle, it’ll rip up your skin.”

Brian nods, and quietly steals a kiss. “I’ll be good.”

“Believe it when I see it,” he grumbles, but kisses back.

When they’re done being sappy, Simone darts in. She has to touch this kid. She. has. to. To get her hands all over his chest, to thumb his thighs apart, to rub the skin above his cock and then below his cock and then just his cock, all over. Brian gasps beautifully, whenever she moves sharp and confident, like she owns him.

Pat’s touching too, although just Brian’s leg, stroking up from shin to knee. “I am starting to see the appeal of having him shaved.”

“Ooh, goody,” she grins. “You’ll keep him like this, mark my words. It feels so nice. Plus, now you can drip hot wax on him. No more nasty hairs to get caught up.”

It’s wild, how Pat shudders harder at that than Brian does. Boy has issues.

“Let’s start with doggie,” she transitions, blunt, fast. She’s already too excited. This needs to move along. “I’ll face him, if you please. I want to lick his chest.”

A real flash of fear—the first one of the night—shoots across Brian’s face. It makes her feel lovely guilt and terrible joy.

“Not like that, baby,” she croons. “No biting. Your mistress is _kind,_ all right? Tonight.”

“ _Benigne_ ,” Brian says drily, as she pushes him onto his back, and she figures it means something like _Thanks, lady, for not tormenting my nipples this time, because you’re a nasty bitch._

Pat isn’t moving fast enough, so Simone takes the matter in hand—

she shoves, positions, gets the two boys where she wants them—

she wants Brian quailing under her mouth, hard and arching up under her tongue—

Pat standing, driving into her cunt, unrelenting and firm.

Simone gets what she wants.

 

 

 

 

“Don’t come in me,” Simone directs, when it’s really almost too late.

Pat moans and freezes. Breathes. Once, twice, thrice. He shudders.

A beat. Is he…good?

He is. Such a good boy. She’s trained him so well.

“Yes’m.”

“I want to flip over. I want you to come on my tits.”

“All right, Simone.”

Pat pulls out of her, lets her turn around. She pushes Brian out of the way unceremoniously, ignoring the color in his cheeks, his erection, ignoring everything. That’s for dealing with later. Or whatever. She could give a fuck.

Pat is so. fucking. good. He waits until she’s ready. He has that tortured look. She _loves_ that look, when she’s asked him to do something and he’s biting his lip, trying to be good. This is one of the easier things, so she knows he can do it. Sometimes, she asks him for things he can’t possibly do. That’s one of her tricks.

“Okay, jerk yourself off on me.”

He does it, fast and grunting, as if she’s going to change her mind and he better hurry. She’s not above stuff like that, truth be told.

But not this time. She lets him find his bliss, jerking into his hand, spurting come all over her tits and belly and neck.

“ _Bene_ , centurion. Now have your little slave boy clean me up.”

Pat doesn’t speak. He probably can’t. He just grabs Brian by the hair and shoves him at Simone’s chest.

Brian’s so _sweet_ , his little tentative licks.

It’s way. too. hot. The tongue that laps at her chest, sucking Pat off her with gentle sweetness. His hot little mouth is hungry for it.

“Mmm, you like that, boy? Still warm, for you?”

He sucks at her tits now with abandon, licking and cleaning but also just teasing with his wicked little tongue. His eyes are closed. He looks rather blissful, actually, which is strange. If she were making Pat do this, he would look blushing and humiliated and horny. But Brian doesn’t look ashamed, really, just red-faced and subservient and fucking. into. it. And also horny.

She would probably say some shit to Pat, if he was licking his own come off her chest, face-first, hands tied behind his back. She could say almost anything, and make him blush, and maybe cry. But Brian, she doesn’t feel like she can touch. What can she say, when he opens his eyes a touch, lidded, lusty, and smiles at her? Like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he was made for this, like this is why Pat brought him here in the first place?

“Good boy,” she shudders in defeat, as he sucks at her nipple.

Pat’s hand is sneaking around Brian’s hip, thumbing his cock. Fair enough, she supposes. The boy’s done so well.

“Don’t, _centurion_ ,” she sighs, as Pat starts to jerk him in earnest. “Let him fuck me. He’ll like that.”

Brian grins, and says nothing at all, as Pat nods and guides him in. It doesn’t take him long, the boy, to jerk his hips hard and come with a cute little scream, that might be Latin or might be English or might be a language that no human speaks. A language only for sexy little demons that look like cute wide-eyed video producers.

“ _Fuck_.” she sighs, as the boys pull out.

 

 

 

 

 

“BRI. AN.” Simone can’t stop herself from shouting. “You are SO FUCKING HOT.”

He dimples. “Ah-thankyew. You’re really fun to play against. I hope it was relaxing?”

She curls her fingers on his shoulder, traces the red lines with her thumb. “I have no bones. None. None left. I feel like I’ve been relaxing for a thousand years.”

Sitting with Brian is always like this. They curl up together, and legs and arms are everywhere, and neither is on each other’s lap, not really, but face and hair and skin and clothes are pressed tight together. Pat waves at the sofa from the kitchen, asks if she wants tea too. She does. Chamomile, please. With honey. Thanks.

“Should I be getting into costumes, Brian? Is that the secret?”

“It is _so_ important,” he gushes, while she tugs at him, his ears, his hair, his cute little shoulders. “But it’s mostly—I mean—it’s you. It’s just to make you react. Get worked up. ‘Cause if you don’t, like, play along it’s really hard. But you’re so good at it. Like Pat.”

“I’m apparently excellent at looking at Brian like I want to fuck him,” Pat grins lopsidedly, balancing the three mugs. “In any historical era.”

Simone snorts. “Shut up daddy. You’re just as clever. Did all the talking. Bringing me this pretty little German barbarian. A _Teuton_. How did you even know I would know what that was?”

“That’s Brian,” Pat says with a wave, sitting beside them and wrapping his arm around their tangled collective. “He researches. Don’t ask me. Brian was like something something, late Republic, Simone’ll get it, brush up your church Latin dumbass, let’s go.”

“It’s not _all_ me,” Brian pouts into Simone’s neck. “I feed him some dialogue, but the physical stuff. That’s all him.”

“Ooh, baby, I know what you mean,” Simone strokes his cheek. “I _loved_ when he poured that water on your head. So sweet, your scared little face.”

“Yeah. That was good. I gave him a tough job. Keep me in line, no words, no hitting. Or not much.”

Pat chuckles. “I think I worked within the parameters.”

“A very generous master,” Brian cocks his head, impishly. “Too indulgent. I told him he probably shouldn’t let me come, you know. I thought you’d like that. But he can never deny me.”

“I think if I were a Roman,” Pat says languidly, pulling the hairs on the nape of Brian’s neck to tilt his head back. “And I had a pretty pleasure-slave, it’d be a fucking waste not to watch him come.”

Brian’s neck tastes good—salty-sweet, the coppery collar—and his little sighs.

“I thought you were tired,” Pat rubs her shoulder.

Simone was tired. But she’s not, now, chamomile be damned. Her mouth wants to be on Brian’s body, although it can pause enough to mutter. “I think you’re right, Pat. I think he _is_ a witch. How the fuck am I still horny.”

“Told you,” Pat responds, kissing Brian as well. “Witchcraft.”

“Completely,” Simone says into his neck.

“Hmm I could do a Salem thing,” Brian ponders, between his panting. “That’d have a real feel to it. Like, Goody Simone and Preacher Patrick are hunting down witches.”

Under her kisses, Brian’s head jerks, and she thinks it might be Pat, thinking.

“Kid, kid, write that one down,” Pat taps. “I kinda remember the Crucible. I could do that.”

“I’m in trouble now,” Brian murmurs to Simone. “Those Puritans were kinky as fuck.”

Simone pulls off him with a smack, turns to Pat. “They sure were. Oh shit, Pat, that would be so _fun_. How do we make the stocks happen? And how long can he stand on his toes? And does he have any birthmarks?”

Brian shivers deliciously under her fingers, but it’s Pat who captures her mouth.

“I definitely will drown if you two tie me up and throw me in a river,” Brian says nervously, while they kiss. “So please give me a chance to repent, first.”

Pat whispers in Simone’s ear. “That’s Brian for, _please see if you can really scare me_. I’ll need your help with that, goodwife.”

“Aw hell yeah,” Simone preens. “Y’all are the fuckin _best_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- M/M/F threesome (heyyo simone),  
> \- (roleplay of) slave/master sexual relations,  
> \- rope bondage & light BDSM stuff,  
> \- shaving in a sexual context,  
> \- bad Latin,  
> \- oral sex, vaginal sex,  
> \- some cum licking and I still can't figure out how to spell come/cum sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> hey yo much like simone i didn't take latin but only french, so corrections are appreciated


	23. (don't tell your boyfriend)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian's sick and tired. pat is too. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _some days the line I walk / turns out to be straight / other days the line tends to / deviate_

Brian hates being sick. He hates it so much he writes songs about it. Look, he grew up listening to enough indie folk to know, okay—if you feel miserable, throw some A-minor on it, and awayyy we goooo.

Nothing this sickness produces is worth filming, though. It’s not as bizarre-freaky as shingles and it’s not as miserable-productive as a depressive episode. Its lyrics are boring. It’s just a stupid cold.

It fakes him out, that’s the annoying thing. Like, when Brian gets sick

(which is often)

the first day of getting-sick is actually almost nice because his brain kind of slows down a bit. His body sits a little differently, less tense. He doesn’t stress about things quite as much. Food tastes different, like he wants to take his time with it. Sleep comes easy and deep, which is rare for Brian

(actually, this isn’t true anymore

(he has to update this little self-description for the future, because he doesn’t have insomnia anymore? He forgets sometimes. Brian never even planned to be cured of insomnia, he thought that would just be a lifelong thing, fighting sleep, hating it, raging against the dying of the light every night like a total idiot.

But then Pat happened, and suddenly (other than the odd episode when bad shit goes down in his brain) he can wink out of existence like a lightswitch, conk right out in Pat’s arms or Pat’s bed or Pat’s old t-shirts like a sleepy child. Sleeping next to Brian is probably not so good for Pat (he’s wiggly and he wakes up much earlier and he likes to _talk_ ) but sleeping next to Pat is a fucking _revolution_ in Brian’s life history. Patrick’s very existence is a communist manifesto and everywhere he touches the body of the proletariat is rising and they are _demanding_ control of the means of production and booting out that tyrant brain and there’ll be no sleep rations anymore, not on their watch.

)

which is to say, Brian sleeps fine now).

So the first day of being sick, his brain quiets down a bit and Brian never knows why (stupid) but he just kind of enjoys it. His thoughts slowing down a touch, the leader switching in the frantic mind-body two-step that is Brian’s life.

Stupidly, he usually kisses Pat a lot, when he’s in that mood

(it’s conducive to shutting his brain down and just _going with the flow_ )

which basically ensures that every single time Brian has something communicable,

(again, a lot)

Pat gets exposed to it extensively on the most contagious day. Brian _hates_ getting people sick.

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick doesn’t write songs about being sick, of course

(because he’s normal)

but he does have his own little rituals. He makes a lot of tea, and coughs a lot, and doesn’t really slow down very much. Maybe he just ignores it. 

(No, that’s not right. It’s not denial. Pat doesn’t push himself too hard or pretend he’s well. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly what it is. It’s just that Patrick accepts being sick a lot more gracefully than Brian, even though Brian is sure he’s had more practice.)

Pat rests and coughs and makes tea, and looks a little extra-tired and scraggly-drawn, and that’s it. He doesn’t apologize for going home early, or google weird symptom + _is it normal,_ or blame Brian for being a typhoid mary

(

“Sorry I got you sick,” Brian apologizes, when Pat’s coughing his way to the kitchen. They’re gonna be late.

“Coulda been the other way,” Pat shrugs. “You’re sick too.”

“I was sick first _._ That’s not how _time_ works.”

“Hmmm, I guess in a way you’re right—it’s really the slow march of time that got us _both_ sick.”

Brian throws a pillow because Pat’s making fun of him, and he hates laughing when his nose is running.

)

so overall, watching Pat be sick isn’t stressful at all, which is good, because Brian gets enough sick-stress for both of them.

 

 

 

 

 

“Just leave it and go home, kid.”

“I haven’t done fucking anything today,” Brian whines, and sniffs.

“You’re being melodramatic. You’ve been working all day. And probably all last night. Close up shop. Pack it in. Let’s go home and be miserable next to each other, in bed, with Netflix.”

Brian’s brain is a little slow, from the sniffles, so he’s halfway through crankily refusing

(because it’s only 4:30, and he’s tired, and he really _is_ behind on things for the day, not just Brian-behind but like actual might-not-make-this-deadline behind)

when he realizes that Pat just said that out loud, at work, and people are definitely still here.

Brian’s eyes flick up, scared, and he clears his throat. Should he just whisper to Pat that he messed up or is responding to that request with a whisper actually more salacious for everyone in earshot? Should he be cracking a joke, or will an innuendo actually pull people’s minds to think about the possibility that they’re fucking? Should he—

“Kid. Your sentence just ended on ‘and finally—’. Are you okay?”

“Um. Yeah. Just didn’t um. Know if that was a standard coworker Netflix-and-chill offer or…”

That’ll do. Brian’s left the door open. Pat can probably joke his way out of that, if he wants, something that makes it clear to the office ears that his offering of mutual suffering is (theoretically) platonic.

“Oh.” Pat glances around, then shrugs. “Eh, I’m sick of worrying about that. We’ve been leaving work together for like a year and a half. So is that a yes to my place? I bought new tissues.”

“I—I—I drove.”

“Oh, right, right,” Pat coughs. “Your place, then?”

“Sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

He lets Pat drive, like usual, which is good, because his brain isn’t working quite right. It’s not the cold, though. Brian can drive with a cold. But he can’t drive very well when he is _having a moment oh my god are we work public now._

“You’re quiet,” Pat grunts in concentration, as they thread through traffic. It’s bad, at this hour. Very bad.

(Brian shouldn’t ever drive to work, but when he’s sick he feels too fucking guilty to take the subway.)

“I—oh, fuck _you_ mister—that is not a fucking _lane_ —sorry—I didn’t piss you off, did I?”

“ _What_?”

Pat’s fingers tap on the wheel. “Sorry, it just slipped out. If you didn’t want people to know, my bad. Although I do sincerely think they’d have to be intentionally dense to miss it, at this point.”

This is true, absolutely true, because you can only sneak around for so many months before you just get sick of it and accept that conspiring

(to stagger work arrival times or lunch plans or not touch each other with easy familiarity or stare lustily)

is way more trouble than it’s worth. Still. There’s knowing and then there’s _knowing_.

“So does this silence mean you _are_ mad, then?” Pat’s nervous, Brian realizes. His brain should have realized that many minutes ago, but he’s sick, and Pat’s subtle. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not mad _,_ Pat Gill.”

“Oh, good,” Pat relaxes a bit. “Although it’d probably be helpful if you could get mad in a minute, ‘cause I’m gonna need you to get the tire iron out and brain the guy in this sedan _._ ”

Brian would snort, if he wasn’t busy, again, _having a moment_. “But you’re not _out_ , Pat.”

“I’m not?”

Brian considers what that tone means. His brain can’t quite process it. Damn, he probably looks stupid, with his mouth falling open like that.

“Sorry, kid. Not trying to be oblique. I get it, but I mean. We’ve been to parties together.”

“That was new people,” Brian says very seriously. “That’s different. And Jenna was an accident. And I made you deal with Jonah because I can’t keep a secret from Laura to save my life. This is different.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe—” Pat hesitates, but it could just be the road. “Maybe I’ve been a bit silly.”

Brian doesn’t think so,            

(

When they first talked about boundaries, Pat wasn’t silly at all. He was very clear. Serious.  _Let’s keep it professional at work, okay? I don’t want it to be weird, if we can help it. And I don’t need the internet discussing my sex life. More than they usually do, anyway._

 _Of course, of course,_ Brian had nodded. And it made perfect sense, at the time. Keep it on the DL. Keep it off social. Swear Laura to secrecy. Keep an acceptable distance away. Don’t look too excited, when you leave, twenty steps behind Pat, which is probably not long enough to fool anyone, you stupid bitch.

Now, there’s only so long you can fuck somebody in ridiculous ways and also work with them before the boundary between worlds starts to gray a bit, but that’s a _relatively_ new development, the work-fucking, and _Pat_ started that, not Brian, so it’s not Brian’s fault, okay? _Pat_ was the one that offered to jerk him off in the work bathroom and _Pat_ was the one who pressed him up against the wall, behind the copier, all those months ago, for the first time—

(although Brian had been fucking with Pat that day on purpose actually so maybe it is his fault

( _fuck_ , Pat’s not even out to his _parents_ , how could Brian have—))

)

“Kid?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” Pat flits a quick glance over at him, eyes narrow.

“Nothing.”

“That was a pretty heavy tortured silence and then heartfelt apology, for nothing.” Pat sighs. “Man, I wish we were having this conversation not in a car. I’d much rather be kissing you when I tell you that I’m sick of hiding the best fucking thing in my life.”

“Sorry?” Brian says again.

“What are you sorry _for_ ,” Pat sighs, exasperated. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Brian.”

“Sorry…for having a car?”

Pat smiles. “Okay, now that one is a good apology. This is madness. _Please_ don’t drive tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They don’t have sex, because there’s snot and coughing and lots of miserable-body-feeling all around. Instead they sit on Brian’s bed and Pat curls his arm around Brian’s shoulder and they talk about _feelings_ for like two hours (which to Brian is actually about as good as sex).

Pat coughs, and runs his hands through his hair, and says _it hasn’t been fair to you_ and _this is important to me_ and _I’m sorry my dad’s a troglodyte_ and _no one will even believe I could land a catch like you, kid._

Brian sniffs and cries and snorts and wrings his hands in his hair—

and realizes that this was important to him, actually. That they couldn’t go out for drinks with work people and sit next to each other. That Allegra still asked Pat about how his tinder profile was working out. That when Pat borrowed Brian’s car to drive his mom around the city, he hadn’t asked if Brian wanted to meet her.

“I’m an asshole,” Pat murmurs, kissing Brian’s head. “I made you cry.”

“I’m just really happy,” Brian confesses. “Sometimes I cry when I’m happy.”

“Right on your sleeve, huh, kid.”

Brian nods vigorously.

“We still probably have to keep it on the DL, the actual sex-in-the-physical-office part,” Pat is stroking the shell of his ear. “I don’t think anyone would approve of that. I should probably try to cool it.”

“I’ll try to remind you,” Brian says, guiltily, because he doesn’t really want to.

“Heh. I know you. You’re not gonna try very hard. You’ve got an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.”

“Yeah.” He likes the feeling of Pat playing with his earlobe, oddly. “I do. I like when you mark me up, too, even though I shouldn’t.”

“Oh hell,” Pat winces. “That is going to be annoying, actually. That everyone can draw a straight line from how fucked-up you look right to me.”

Brian’s never worked with someone he’s dated before, so he’s never though about that. It would be embarrassing, for Pat. Brian’s long ago decided that if he’s got hickeys or fingermarks or the cute little limp that Simone loves so much, then people can just look at him and think _well that kid likes to fuck_ and their judgement can just go take a hike, and actually is kind of a turn-on, so there.

But Pat cares a lot about judgment, and it’s not fair, to make him deal with it like that, the way that Brian does.

“We could just leave it be, then,” Brian offers. “We don’t have to do it. I don’t think anyone really knows, just from what you said today. We’re probably good.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Pat growls. “Don’t you _dare_ offer that, after you just cried at me in happiness. I’m an asshole, but I’m not—I’m not going to walk this back. Because I’m _embarrassed_. Fuck it. Fuck ‘em. Worst case scenario is they laugh at me, and that’s half my damn day job, anyway, so I can deal”

“What about if they punch you,” Brian says, which isn’t actually supposed to be mean, he’s just a pessimist without a filter, and he’s thinking about Jonah.

Pat snorts. “Now that would be interesting. They probably won’t, though. I might get a few scowls but it’s probably you that’s gonna hafta deal with the weird questions. But you’re used to that, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian shrugs. “That’s easy.”

“Tell me your ways. What do you say? ‘Cause I usually say I fell down a flight of stairs, but people are probably starting to think my apartment has some _really_ fuckin crazy staircases.”

Brian laughs. “I just say I like kinky sex, Pat.”

“Huh.” Pat kisses him, thoughtfully. "I guess I can try that." 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for...nothing, actually. Some passing references to kink, but if they were going to freak you out you probably wouldn't have made it this far. Mostly this one is just Talking. Just a short little ditty that happened in my brain this morning and wouldn't go away.


	24. - pure, part 1 -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat & bri talk it out before their first time
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _tonight's the night we're gonna make it happen / tonight we'll put all other things aside_

“I would have thought you’d be like, ‘virginity is just a _social construct_ , Patrick.’”

“I mean, it definitely _is_ a social construct.”

“I knew it.”

“We can still _do it_ though. Being fictional has never stopped something from being sexy. I’d really like it, actually.”

“Yeah? It’s not boring to you?

“No. Not boring. What’s your fantasy?”

“I—I haven’t got anything detailed worked out, really. I think it’s just—”

“A deflowering thing?”

“…yeah. Being your first. You being scared. Going slow. Stuff like that.”

“That’s easy enough. Can I add a few things?”

“Of course, Bri. Always.”

“Can I rock some genderfucking, here? I have like—a vision—prom night—tight dress—little too much makeup—”

“You’re turning me on, kid. I’m into that.”

“Dyou have, like, any plot points?”

“Not really. I’m a simple man. As long as you start shy and eventually give it up I’ll be happy.”

“ ‘Kay. So I gotta pick a motivation. Dyou want it to be, like, romantic? Or sort of a matter of convenience?”

“…huh?”

“Like are we talking American Pie? Clueless? Sixteen Candles? Twilight?”

“Uh. Jeez. Slow down. I didn’t have a—a cinematic reference point—”

“Really? Losing your virginity is such a _movie_ thing, though.”

“I guess. I think I was just remembering my first time. Kinda thinking about…romanticizing it. Keep the fun parts. Cut out the awkward bits. Y’know.”

“When dyou consider your first time?”

“I was sixteen. It was…stupid, ridiculous, but great, actually. We did it in a car—parked in back of our old middle school—they used to have a really dark parking lot, which made up for the creepiness.”

“ _Ha!_ In a car—now that’s a good note, Patrick.”

Pat grins. “It’s awkward. But that kinda fits, yknow. The awkwardness. You bang your head and laugh a lot.”

“That’s really cute,” Brian says. He pumps Pat for details—Pat finds quite a few—how they’d been messing around with blowjobs for only a few weeks, so even that was still novel and unpracticed. How she was actually more insistent than Pat, that night, that they were gonna make it happen. How she laughed at his sacrilegious swearing, because she was Jewish, and she thought he was being absolutely ridiculous. How it was fast, and messy, and stupid, and they used a condom and it hurt her, but she pushed through with determination, and then afterward he ate her out for twice as long because he was so fucking in love.

The kid drinks it all in with big eyes and his arms around Pat’s neck. He looks so _awestruck_ , maybe just because he got Pat to talk, but there’s something else in his expression that’s interesting.

“Dunno if I can remember anything else. That enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Brian breathes. “Thank you. That sounds really beautiful. I’m not gonna like. Try to recreate it. Just wanted some of the motivation.”

“Sure thing, kid. What was your first time, like?”

Brian shrugs. “Who even knows what counts as your first time, Pat? When you’re not like. Straight. First time with a girl? A boy? On top? On bottom?”

“Fair. Sorry I’m a little heteronormative.”

“No, no. It’s not bad. I just didn’t really have like a story. I was always just like. Doing stuff. I got a lot of firsts.”

“Got a favorite?”

Brian grins. “Dozens. I have like three favorite firsts just with _you_ , Pat.”

“You really know how to make a guy blush.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a little later. They’ve worked out details, costumes. Plenty enough for Brian to run with. He’s sure the kid’ll do something that blows his mind. It’s the part of the night now where, if Brian wants to talk, Pat puts on shitty background television and tries not to fall asleep. Actually, if Brian’s awake at this point, he _definitely_ wants to talk. Kid tends to fall asleep at the drop of a hat if his mind isn’t worrying at something.

So Pat’s not surprised when he gets the little, “Can I ask you a question, Pat?”

“That’s what you do, kid.”

“What was your first time like, with a guy?”

It’s tentative, the question, like Brian will back off at the least resistance. Because he knows. This one isn't gonna be as easy and breezy a conversation as the earlier one. This isn't an easy question, for Pat. He should probably at least _try_ to answer it, though. It’s probably a lot of pressure, not knowing this shit. Landmines and all.

So Pat thinks about it. First time with a guy. He has to sort through, searching—Brian’s right, about the heteronormativity. There’s not such a script for queer firsts. There’s lots of memories, though. A lot of ones he doesn’t take out very often. Being afraid and being inexperienced, stuff that hurt and made him cry at the time, stuff that felt fucking amazing and made him cry later, and stuff that he vowed never to ever do again (and did anyway).

“…Pat?”

“Sorry, kid. Just tryin’ to figure out what counts.”

“Whatever you want to talk about,” Brian says, quietly, carefully. The kid’s walking on eggshells. Pat wishes he could dig around inside himself and pull out something else good, something that would make Brian’s face shine like the memory with Aggie did, but he doesn’t know if he has anything neat or cute in this particular folder.

“Ask something specific. First what with a guy.”

“First kiss,” Brian says, probably because he’s trying to throw a softball, but this one has some unexpected English on it, actually, and Pat winces. “Sorry, sorry. I can ask a different one.”

“Nah. It’s fine. I just have a lot of regrets about it. I acted like an asshole.”

“How so?”

“Lots of ways.”

This is the kind of conversation-shutting-down bullshit Pat always pulls. But he wants to talk about it. He _wants_ to give the kid this. He thinks he can, too, because the way Brian’s looking at him is thoughtful, like he’s going to figure out how to press on this, how to help Pat out. Brian takes a shot in the dark. “Was it a wrestling guy?”

Pat raises an eyebrow. “Not a bad guess. Not far off. Not a wrestler, no. Just a friend.”

“High school?”

“No, we were younger. Middle school, maybe. I didn’t wrestle, back then, but we were always roughhousing. Yknow how it is, when you’ve known someone since you were a kid.”

“Yeah,” Brian nods. “More physical.”                              

Pat’s shoulders relax a little, that Brian understands. “Exactly. We were always jumping on each other and giving each other indian burns and shit like that. I could pin him down. I got my growth spurt first.”

Brian gives a little smile.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Some things never change.”

“What’d he look like?”

Pat closes his eyes. It’s funny, trying to explain memories like this. “Cute. Round face. Brazilian. Dark hair. Bushy eyebrows. Never stopped moving, but I don’t think I did either, at that age. We were wild. We went camping a lot.”

“Boy scouts?”

“Yup. But also just we’d go fuck around in the forest. You could just kinda wander off. Our parents trusted us.” He snorted. “Which turned out to be a mistake, but yknow. Least we didn’t burn anything down.”

“What’d you do?”

Pat sighs. “I started it. Of course.”

“You kissed him?”

“It was kind of a joke. Not really, but kind of. I was holding him down, at the time. Playing. We were too old for that shit, really. Probably thirteen, fourteen. Old enough to be jerking off to dirty magazines. Too old for kid stuff. But we’d just always done it. So it felt so natural.” Pat digs to find a way to say this funny, because it _was_ funny, at the time. “I’d already exhausted my full arsenal. Noogies. Wet willies. Tickling. He wasn’t crying uncle.”

Brian is closing his eyes, smiling and Pat knows he’s picturing it.

“I threatened to lick his eye, and he didn’t like that idea, so he was putting up a fight. I wasn’t gonna, actually. But I knew he’d give up if I pinned his arms down and got my tongue real close.”

“Your tactics haven’t changed much, Pat Gill.”

“Nope,” Pat snorts. “But you’d probably have just let me lick your eye, you little weirdo.”

“I would have been _honored_ to be your first,” Brian says grandly, and it makes Pat laugh.

“God, _hard_ no. Hard no on eye-licking, you hear me?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Then I— _Jesus_ Brian, I will _safeword_ —keep your fucking tongue over there.”

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’ll respect your eye virginity. Go on.”

“ _Thank you_. Anyway, it was difficult because he was wriggling, and yknow, I dunno what I was thinking. Maybe he said something and I was trying to shut him up. Maybe I thought it would make him give up. Maybe I just had been wanting to and didn’t think about it until that moment. But yeah, I kissed him. Tongue and everything.” Pat sighs, and winces. He doesn’t like this memory. It doesn’t paint him in a very good light.

“That’s really _cute_ , Pat. Why are you scowling?”

Pat is a little taken aback. “Cause that’s like—not okay? To do to somebody?”

Brian tilts his head back and forth, considering. “Consent’s a little wonky, I’ll give you that. But sounds like you had a pretty established relationship. I dunno if it’s that much weirder than tickling, really.”

Pat drags a hand through his hair. “You won't say that after you hear the rest.”

“Try me.”

“So yeah. I kissed him. We kissed. He kissed back, I mean. It was nice. I really fucking liked it. I threatened to do it again, if he didn’t give up on whatever bullshit we were arguing about, and he didn’t, so we did it again. A couple more times.”

“Pat this is literally _adorable_.”

“Again, wait for it. I _did_ eventually let him up, ‘cause we had to go home.”

“Was it awkward, the next day?”

“No, not at all. You don’t understand. We were always doing wild shit. He put a _lizard_ down my shirt in revenge. We were so like—beyond awkwardness.”

“So did you do it again?”

“Oh, _fuck_ yes we did. A _lot_. Not just when we were wrestling, either. We kinda talked about it, a little bit, because we knew it was weird. But it’s easy to rationalize shit that you want to do. We were practicing, for one day when we got girlfriends. Yknow. Trying out shit from the movies.”

Brian is staring at him with that same little golden wonderful expression, and it’s making this easier, somehow. He never thinks about this. But it _is_ kind of beautiful, he supposes, when he remembers those wild short crazy summers, when you had to get everything out in just about a month and a half, while the weather was good. And kissing Gus was fucking _amazing_. Messy and stupid and perfect. He would bite, if Pat got stuff wrong, and Pat would curse and headbutt him probably _way_ too hard, and then there’d be a frantic squabble that Gus would always let Pat win, and would always end in them trying again, but slower this time.

He explains some of this to Brian, because he knows it probably will make the kid smile.

It does. The kid’s _beaming_ , actually. Man, the rest of this story is really gonna suck. Why didn’t he just think of this right away, when Brian asked, and throw it off real quick and funny and let it lie. Why did his brain have to attach all the other stuff, the later stuff, to it. If he’d never mentioned—if he hadn’t led with _I acted like an asshole_ —like a fucking moron—if he’d just thought quicker—been less of a cynical old fuck—not let all the dark shit—if it hadn’t _just_ been Thanksgiving—

_sigh._

“Hang on kid. One sec. I’m gonna go pee.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian probably knows he’s fleeing, but lets him. It sucks, that the only room you can flee to in a studio apartment is the bathroom, because it has a mirror in it. Pat doesn’t want to lean on the sink and look at himself, that’s for fucking sure, but he also doesn’t want to lean on the sink and _not_ look at himself, because that seems kind of pathetic.

He breathes a little. Even. In, out. Brian’s been trying to get him to use his meditation app. Pat gives it a go, whenever Brian insists, but he doesn’t like and doesn’t know how to _dismiss the thoughts as they come just let them float by don’t judge them_ or whatever the lady says.

Pat likes the body check-in bit, though. That’s concrete, he can do that. Chest first. How’s the breathing going. Seems good. Like usual. Air goes in cold, comes out warm. Ribs expand. Ribs contract. They do their thing.

Arms are good, too. Not shaking. Just leaning on the sink. Shoulders aren’t even that tense, really, although he should relax them a bit. His posture’s such trash, but now’s not the time.

Legs are fine, also. Just the same as ever. Feet on the ground. He can feel an old bruise on his shin, but it’s not a bother. It’s a little cold in here, he realizes. But not enough that he has goosebumps. Just enough that his skin feels tight.

Mind is the last one, and that’s a real bitch, ain’t it, so Pat usually just swaps that for Head. CALH is a shittier acronym but it works for him, okay. His jaw is _aching_ —fuck—he’s been clenching it—a long time, feels like. Shit. Unclenching it doesn’t do much, not now. There’s already little lines of pain and tension traced out from the muscles of his jaw, up through his sinuses, his eyes, wrapping around the back of his head like a band, up to his temples. He has a headache, he realizes. His eyes hurt more than they should. Maybe he’s exhausted, it feels kind of like that. But a tense kind of exhausted. Like he’s trembling. He’s not, though. Objectively. Not trembling. The trembling feeling is internal, mind fucking with you, not a body thing. It’s like a song stuck in your head. It’s not _real._

“…Pat? Are you okay?”

He coughs. “Yeah, kid. Comin’. Sorry.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian’s face is very carefully neutral when Pat emerges, shame-faced, and slides back into bed.

“Thanks for telling me about your first times,” Brian says softly, tucking himself under Pat’s arm, where he belongs.

This is an olive branch, and Pat should take it.

“Yeah. Sorry. I owe you the rest of the story.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Pat.”

 _Let yourself out of this one, Patrick,_ his aching head suggests. _Just let it be._

“I’m tired. Let’s go to bed. I’ll tell you the rest later.”

“Only if you want,” Brian yawns. “I got enough for the scene. You’re gonna be thanking me for keeping my car.”

“Hmm. It’d have to be pretty fucking good to convince me to keep a car in this goddamn city, Bri.”

“I’ll make it good.” Brian’s eyes are closed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian _does_ make it good. He’s fucking stunning, in a navy sheath dress with some kind of pearl halter top that’s way classier than Pat remembers prom being. His lipstick is _bright_ red, and he’s got bangles on one wrist—on the other is a corsage, which makes Pat laugh, although he sucks it up when Brian pins his boutonniere on a little rougher than necessary and says _take this seriously, Patrick_ in a voice that’s talking about the roleplay and also talking within it.

They smash-cut past the part where you have to stand in a room and try to dance while stone-cold sober, though Brian ruffles himself up a bit— _to make it feel like I’ve been dancing—_ while Pat drives them around the block, playing out a bit of time, picking something on the radio that feels right.

It’s easy for Pat to find in himself the nervous kid, driving his gorgeous date home, sneaking glances, heart thrumming uncertain but sounding calm as he says no baby, it doesn’t have to hurt, we’ll take it so slow, it’ll be so good. It’s easy for Brian to look fidgety and scared and also wild and brave and determined, and he cycles through all of them with such breathtaking ease that it reminds Pat that this kid acts but he doesn’t _lie_ —the things he pulls out of himself for Pat are _true_ , in their way—they're  _real_  —

or sometimes they’re jokes, like when he rejects the idea of a condom, saying _you can’t get pregnant from your first time, right?_ —

Pat snorts, at that, he can’t help it—

and it’s so fucking good, to rush into kissing this kid slow, a new place in an old beat-up car, for the first time, again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- memories of childhood sexual encounters (consensual & age-appropriate),  
> \- deflowering chat,  
> \- negative self-talk in an intimate third-person limited perspective,  
> \- a brief moment of being overwhelmed by bad memories,  
> \- genderbending without much comment.
> 
>  
> 
> kinda a short one, not super satisfying, basically a half-chapter but ah well. sometimes thats how it go. 
> 
> my biggest regret: i couldn't work in a reference to love & basketball: the BEST (het) VIRGINITY SCENE ever (in a SPORTS MOVIE OMG)


	25. (peace in the valley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian wants something a little wild. pat indulges his whims. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _ooh yeah, ha, yeah / take me to the room where the red’s all red / take me out of my head’s what I said_

Long after the rooftop party (which was so _beautiful_ Brian swears he’ll never forget it (how the stars burst into ashes)) a thought keeps pressing itself into Brian’s mind. He entertains it, of course,

(he _always_ entertains those types of thoughts)

but for once, he’s a little shy. It’s so different from what they normally do.

“What’re you plotting, Bri?” Pat yawns at him one night, when they’re almost sleeping (Pat is, anyway) and Brian is thinking about it again (and spacing out).

“Nothing.”

“Oh,” Pat turns, pulls Brian’s shoulder to turn him, too. “So it’s not work, then.”

“I’m just tired,” says Brian, which is stupid, because he can’t really lie to Pat, especially not face-to-face.

“Pssh.” Pat flicks his nose. “I know you better than that. That’s the it’s-not-nothing kind of nothing. Spill, kid.”

“It’s not important.”

Something in his voice makes Pat wake himself up a little, on an elbow. His voice is sleepy-gruff, but patient. “If it’s bugging you, it’s important. Tell me.” Brian feels guilty, because Pat’s starting to get that _oh-jeez-maybe-this-is-a-serious-conversation_ look. It looks like the beginning of a scowl, on Pat’s face (on Brian’s face it usually looks like a panic attack).

“No, no. Nothing big. Not like that. It’s just a sex thing, but—I’m not sure—if you’d like—”

“Oh,” Pat huffs out a laugh, lets himself fall back down. “That’s good. That’s easy. What do you want?”

“I…I dunno if I should want it.”

“Hey, kid, that’s my territory,” Pat waves a hand, dismissively. “Getting nervous about dumb shit that’s gonna be fun. Just say it. If I can’t make it happen, I’ll tell you so.”

Brian steels himself, and asks, softly, into Pat’s hair. “Would you fuck me when I’m stoned?”

The waving hand rests itself on Brian’s thigh, taps, where it’s sticking up from the bed. “Uh, not to be a dick, but haven’t we done that?”

“No, no, I mean like—” Brian hates that he can hear the blush, in his own voice, “—like not just a little bit.”

“Huh.” Pat strokes his leg, thoughtfully. The skin is soft, because of Simone. Pat can’t resist touching it, ever since, and so shaving might be a good move going forward. It’s a lot of hassle. But probably worth it. “You mean you wanna be farther gone than usual. How far?”

“As far as possible,” Brian says, fervently. “So I can’t think.”

Pat’s finger trails behind his knee. It tickles, and he wiggles a bit, but doesn’t push it away. “Can’t think at all? Don’t know what’s happening around you?”

“Yeah. Is that…bad?” He’s terribly anxious, that Pat will shut him down about this. That he’ll wince and say

( _oh boy kid that’s really a little gross for me_

(or _I’m not looking to fuck someone who can’t fuck back, all right?_

(or _not loving the date-rape vibes, Gilbert_

(or even _sounds boring, but whatever. I guess we can do that_ ) ) ) )

say something that crushes this little idea, even though Brian has realized now that he really, really wants it.

( _Fuck_ , is this how Pat feels, _every time?_ )

“It’s not bad, kid,” Pat pulls on his hip, presses the sides of their bodies together. “Stop flipping out. You know I want to fuck your brains out.”

“But it might be weird…when I can’t like…”

“Stop me? You know me _a_ _little bit_ , at least, Bri.”

Brian giggles, and feels silly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” The hand is back on his leg again, feeling the barest beginning of stubble, delicately. “I just gotta be careful with you, all right? If you can’t talk, you can’t safeword. So no rough stuff.”

“Sounds fair,” Brian hesitates, again, because something in Pat’s tone is so _serious_. “Are you sure you even want to—?”

“I’m really sure. Kinda so sure that I don’t wanna examine it too much.”

Brian smiles, the one that makes his nose crinkle, even though Pat’s not looking at him, and so it doesn’t really matter if he’s cute. He’s gonna like this one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat gets the weed for him. It’s a strange little brown vial, with a dropper.

“Well don’t open it on the goddamn subway,” Pat snarks, as Brian examines it with deep curiosity.

“What _is_ it?”

Pat shrugs. “Thomas calls it green dragon. It’s just an extract, I guess? Look, I dunno what the kids these days are up to. I just didn’t want you to be coughing all night. And you hate edibles.”

Brian, who’s just gotten over a cold, feels warm right down to his toes. Pat takes such fucking good care of him.

When they get it home, Brian can’t resist the urge to examine it, right away.

“It’s _bright_ green—” he exclaims, in some surprise “— _wow._ ”

“Looks like Mountain Dew,” Pat observes. “Maybe Thomas is just fucking with me.”

“No, no, it smells right,” Brian assures him. “How much do I take?”

“Don’t you wanna eat, first?” Pat pulls the little bottle out of Brian’s hands, slips it in a pocket. “You can’t go out to play until you finish your dinner.”

Brian pouts. “It’ll be faster on an empty stomach, anyway.”

“Yeah, but then you’ll be high _and_ hungry,” Pat gives him a lopsided smile. “And no way to ask for munchies, if you get as stoned as you want.”

“I’ll liiiiiiive,” Brian whines. “ _Pleaaaaaaaaase_.”

“Baby boy,” Pat draws him in. “Listen to me. You’re eating first. No arguments.” Perhaps to placate Brian, Pat scratches down his arm. “I don’t want anything _distracting_ you, do I?”

Brian shivers. He feels as excited as a kid on Christmas. It’s hard, to stop himself from fidgeting, as they eat dinner. He tries not to scarf his food, but the way Pat raises an eyebrow probably means he doesn’t do very well.

“You’ll talk to me?” Brian says, before he realizes that his excitement has snuck into his tone, and it sounds a lot like he’s nervous. “When I’m high. Just so I know you’re there?”

“Of course, kid.” Pat’s making his voice deep on purpose, Brian’s pretty sure. “What do you want me to say.”

“It, uh, probably doesn’t matter so much,” Brian gives a little smile. “I might not remember. You can say whatever filthy things you want.”

“So just the usual, then,” Pat strokes his chin, gently. “Finish your food, and then we’ll get down to it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So again, according to Thomas, two ways to do this,” Pat waves the bottle in front of Brian’s nose, theatrically. Pat’s knows he’s _very very_ excited about this. And Pat’s not above hamming it up a little.

(And also, maybe Pat knows that Brian’s a little _wild_

(even though Pat calls him a _goody-two-shoes_ when he finishes all his projects early

(which sometimes is a good good worker boy thing, yes

(but sometimes he finishes early so that he can go home and drop acid with Jonah))

so whenever he can, Pat likes a chance to teach Brian something new and a bit wild too.)

“First way—mix it with something. Coffee, soda, whatever. And I guess it’s slower. More like edibles. ‘Bout an hour, to come up? Bet it tastes like ass, but I can’t help that.”

Brian nods eagerly. “What’s the _fast_ way?”

Pat snorts. “Why do I even ask. You can put it under your tongue. Thomas says it burns like a motherfucker.”

“Sublingual,” Brian hums. “Clever. I’ll do that, then.” At Pat’s look, he blushes. “Look, I can take a little pain.”

“Oh, I know,” Pat laughs. “You’re just cute, when you’re so eager. When you want something, you want it _bad_ and you want it _now_ , huh?

“Yessir,” Brian rests his hands on Pat’s knees and bounces on the balls of his feet. Pat’s sitting on a stool, toying with the little dropper, teasing him. Brian can’t bear it. He tries to look cute. “Please please _please_ , daddy.”

“All right. Close your eyes and open your mouth, then, kid.”

Brian does so, right away. He knows Pat will fuck with him a bit, so he’s not surprised when he feels fingers first. They’re dry, and taste faintly of dish soap. He lets them stroke into his mouth, sweep under his tongue, coyly.

“So trusting,” Pat murmurs. “I could put anything in here, when you’re not looking.”

“You could,” Brian says, as Pat withdraws and drags the moisture down his neck. “Even when I _am_ looking.”

Pat makes a faint _hmm_ sound, and slides the little dropper into Brian’s mouth, just under his tongue. A few stray drops hit his lips, and they _do_ smart, so that’s going to be interesting.

“Hold it under there as long as you can, baby,” Pat’s other hand grasps the back of Brian’s head firmly, as if he might squirm away. It makes Brian feel pleasantly under control, like it’s okay if he winces or spits or cries or does anything at all, even something embarrassing. Pat’ll handle it. Pat’ll make sure he takes his medicine. “Even if it stings, all right?”

“Yesthiir,” Brian slurs, and then he’s got a little bright rush of something in his mouth. He can’t _taste_ it, exactly, at first, but wowsers _bowsers_ does it sting

(he decides not to fuss, though, because he doesn’t want Pat to get worried)

it stings hot and bad, like rubbing alcohol on a skinned knee. He tries to be good, he really does. It makes him wiggly, the stinging, and leaks up the sides of his tongue, from the wiggling, and it tastes _awful_. Well, no more awful than weed, he supposes, but nobody eats weed and likes it.

He must be making a face, because Patrick is chuckling at him. He pokes Pat in the tummy, as payback.

“Don’t blame me. You’re the one that wants to do things the fast way. There’s water here when you want it.”

Brian holds it as long as he can stand, which isn’t very long, and then chases it with water.

“Ugh. That’s gross.”

“Sorry,” Pat rubs his arm. “Didn’t know. Maybe I should have just bought a vape. Although I think it might be illegal to go in a vape shop if you’re over thirty. I could’ve borrowed Jenna’s.”

“Vaping makes me cough, too,” Brian shrugs. Then, he can’t resist. “Can I take two?”

Pat laughs, and puts his hand back on Brian’s head. “You’re taking three, baby boy. So open up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat watches him during the come-up like he’s made of glass. Brian tries to look less fragile than he feels, splayed across Pat’s lap. They watch _Moana_ , because Brian picks Disney movies when he’s trying for a nice, chill, vibe and Pat hasn’t seen it before.

(Pat also hasn’t seen _The Hunchback of Notre Dame,_ which is Brian’s absolute favorite

(but that is _not_ a chill vibe at all

(“You’ll like it,” Brian tells him, muzzily, “It has a really good song about sin.”

“Mortal sin or venial sin?”

“I…don’t know…the difference?”

“Like, are we talking false idols? No wait. I bet it’s the seven deadlies. Everyone loves those.”

“Just about lust,” Brian corrects. “And burning in hell for it?”

“Fuckin _heavy_ , Disney. All right, that’s our next movie night, then. You really _do_ know what I like.”)))

“Feeling anything yet?” Pat murmurs, stroking Brian’s hair. It feels good.

“A little,” Brian affirms

(although he’s not quite sure—he does feel cozy, though

(the stroking is quite good)

and he can’t remember if they’ve finished the movie or not?

“Maybe we should head back to the bed, then.”

“I don’t wanna move yet,” Brian nuzzles in closer.

“Oh, then we _definitely_ should move.” Pat taps him on the forehead. “C’mon.”

“No,” Brian sulks. “I’m comfy.”

“Are you gonna make me carry you?”

Brian doesn’t say anything,

(because he’s remembering Pat carrying him before (when they were Romans

and how much he very much liked that).

“I’ll take that as a yes. All right, up we go.”

Pat’s strong

(so very strong

(Pat’s carried him before, a lot of different ways))

but Brian needs to help

(he tries, he tries

(he doesn’t really know how, but he tries)

by holding on and trying not to be too heavy.  

 

 

 

 

Brian’s body feels a million miles away

(Pat must be so long

(to be kissing him up here and touching him down there

(at the same time!!

 

And somehow, Brian’s clothes are coming off?

(Brian doesn’t think he’s doing it

(but he might be? perhaps?

because his limbs are heavy

(like lead they’re spread amid the threads of the bed, heels over head,

(except when Pat lifts them, they’re not heavy

(Pat presses into them with five strange fingerpoints of light, and they get light, and he can move them again.

“You’re magic,” Brian hears himself say

(or maybe he doesn’t say it

(could just be an in-his-head thing

“You are beautifully helpless,” Pat murmurs. Funny, how everything is fuzzy and uncertain right now, except Pat’s voice, which rings through the base of Brian’s skull clearer than his own thoughts.

Helpless—what can he say to that

(I am? Yes? Uh-huh? Please don’t help?  

but he doesn’t formulate anything, because

Pat pinches hard up his thigh

 _(interesting_ —the pinching—

“I could do anything with you.” Pat sounds like he’s smiling, that wicked smile which means he’s given up being good for the evening and has decided to be bad, and that it’s okay to be bad, because Brian loves it so very much, and nothing Brian loves so very much could _really_ be bad.

(But it’s _interesting_ , that Brian can’t see the smile,

(because of the pinching

(pinching shouldn’t make it so you can’t see

(right??

(but whatever—the pinching is good

(the smiling is also good

so not seeing must be good also.

“No need to tie you up. I bet you can’t even scream.” Pat’s wicked voice, again. Brian agrees. He doesn’t need to be tied up, although he loves it. He wouldn’t appreciate it, right now. It makes him floaty, at the best of times, and he’s already floating so high and far that he has to fight to come back whenever Pat speaks.

(Can he scream?

(Should he try?

(Opening your mouth is a pretty important part of screaming

(he can do that, at least, he finds

(but then there are fingers in there

(which is _distracting,_ Patrick

(distracting from…

…whatever he was trying to do.

“Some things never change, though. No matter how stoned you are.” Pat’s making a joke, and Brian tries to understand. It must be about his mouth, because Pat’s touching his mouth. Maybe just because he’s sucking. That’s it. He’s teasing. Because Brian always sucks his fingers.

(Who wouldn’t, though?

(they’re such perfect fingers

(long and thin and strong and knobbly-knuckled

(soft—Brian’s have calluses

(Pat said he liked the calluses, but does he, really?

(no one could like calluses

then the fingers are gone, and Brian whimpers at the loss.  

“I guess it’s silly to ask you where you want my cock most.” Pat is right. It _is_ silly, because the answer is the same as it always is— _everywhere_. Touching him. Inside of him. Next to him. Anywhere Pat wants it. Anywhere but far away.

(Is that sound his, the whine?

(it sounds needy

(probably him, then. he’s the needy one

(Pat needs things too but he doesn’t ask for them

(Brian is a good guesser, though, and a good asker, and he _needs_ a lot.

“That’s it? Just moaning? Baby boy, you’re completely lost, aren’t you.” Pat doesn’t sound worried, though. He doesn’t sound like Brian’s lost forever. He sounds amused. Like Brian can be found, and Pat will find him. Probably with his dick, if Brian knows that tone right.

(it’s _that_ tone

(the one that means Brian is going to get what he wants

(which is honestly pretty much always the case

(Brian’s a little shit when he needs to be

(he wants what he wants and he wants it _now_

“Let me give you something. Here. Think about this.” Pat’s weight in his mouth is familiar, tactile, straightforward. Brian opens eagerly, takes it in. The smell and the sight don’t match, because the sight is just black and swirling colors

(maybe his eyes are closed?

(but the taste is real, if not the picture

(he knows what to do, with this

(namely: suck and lick and spit and try hard not to choke

(he’s good at not choking he conquered his gag reflex on purpose when he was seventeen with his toothbrush

(look you read some crazy things online okay

(and it was all worth it to be good at not choking when he met Pat

(so Pat could press his cock into Brian’s throat and Brian could take it all

(and never make a sound that freaked Pat out if he could help it

“Slow down, baby. You’ll hurt yourself. Just relax.” Pat’s soothing him. Because there are tears in his eyes, Brian realizes. Maybe he’s crying because of the weight in his mouth, or maybe he’s crying because he’s being told to slow down. Brian thinks he might be the kind of person who doesn’t slow down, usually. He’s not quite sure. But that seems to fit.

(but he’s also the kind of person who does what Pat tells him

(if he remembers correctly

(so slowing down means...what, exactly?

(putting a hand on Pat’s hip?

(god, it’s a beautiful hip. pointy, pale. the curve of it traces toward Pat’s dick, through dark curly hairs

(he can’t see them right now, the hairs, but Brian knows they’re there

(so familiar. he knows what it’s like to stare at them while he’s

hoping and trying and pretending and enjoying and swallowing and sucking and being good and being bad.

“Such a good boy,” Pat praises, and the light suddenly becomes bright. It’s pink-tan-white and marvellous. Because he’s opened his eyes, Brian realizes. He’s gotten excited. Because he wants to make Pat say _good boy_ again. But he honestly has no clue why he said it in the first place

(maybe he should just take it as a blessing

(like a boon from a distant god

(gods are arbitrary and capricious

(but they should be obeyed. always, and without question.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Pat the god commands. Brian’s heart thrills, although his mouth is empty for a terrible second. Then it’s full again. The new thing it’s full of is softer and more vigorous. It scrapes his chin.

(stubble, it’s Pat’s stubble

(they’re kissing

(right, right, that’s what kissing is

(how do you kiss back?

(eh whatever. Pat never needs him to kiss back

(just keep your teeth apart and your face soft, Gilbert

(let the expert do his wicked work

“I could absolutely ravish you,” Pat murmurs into his temple, which surprises Brian, because that seems far away from the mouth, and how he jumped up there Brian will probably never be able to reconstruct. He also tries to remember if _ravish_ means something bad or good

(maybe it’s both?

(probably both. English is fucked up

(either it means to rape or like to make really happy

(and in the specific case of Brian he kind of sometimes understand the parallels but

(for most people and even for Brian most of the time that is _fucked up_ what a crazy word

(but either way it probably means more touching???

“You always look so good the next day when you’ve been well-fucked,” Pat pets his stomach. “With your hickeys and your cute little winces. Is that how you want to look tomorrow?” Pat is giving him some complicated mental work, here. He has to envision what he wants? And what he will want, tomorrow? And what he looks like, when he’s been well-fucked, which distracts him from all the other visions, with its urgency

(yes yes please god yes

(he wants to be stumbling, aching with the feel of it

(how can Pat understand, what he wants?

(Pat kind of understands because he likes it too

(but Pat is different and he doesn’t like it for the same reasons

(Brian wants to imagine everyone looking at him and thinking _oh that boy got fucked last night_

_and oh my lord he definitely deserved it_

_and oh my heavens I wish it had been me that done it_

(Pat doesn’t have such narcissistic tendencies

(but Brian does,

(he wants to be a filthy sexy slut wh—

wait, did Pat ask him a question?

oh hell, it doesn’t matter, because the teeth on his throat make him arch up

“ _God_ , you are reactive like this. I barely have to touch you.” Pat seems worked up, and Brian’s glad, because he is _madly_ worked up. If this is barely touching, Brian might die of ecstacy, when the real touching commences. The shower of sparks that floods him when Pat’s teeth rake against his skin is madness.

(the tongue on his dick is too much

(oh god so much, so much,

(it

(…

(…

( _fuck_

(…it’s so impossible

(…to think…

(god in heaven

(…

(why is he being pushed?

(down, it’s down he’s being pushed

(he must be moving up, then  

“No, baby. Stay there.” Pat directs him, like always. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to fuck you, because you’re gorgeous. You’re so fucking _vulnerable_ , kid. Christ, I don’t know why it makes my dick hard. But it does.”

(Brian knows though he can’t say

( _because you like being powerful and strong_ he thinks

(and also _and you like being the reasonable one_

(and also _and you like how much I trust you and you like not fucking that up_

ah balls he’s not going to remember…

“Incoming,” Pat says, and this is a little too abstract for Brian’s brain right now, but he realizes after the cool feeling hits that he was trying to warn him about the lube. It’s ok, though. Brian doesn’t think he could even flinch, right now, even if something bothered him.

(nothing is bothering him, though

(the fingers are good

(distant, fuzzy, but good

(and the cock is going to be good too, when it comes

(please please

( _pleaaaaaaase_

"You ready, babe? Oh—Jesus don't do that— _Christ_ —let me set the pace, Bri, you're gonna hurt yourself."

(sorry sorry sorry

(just want

( _please_

(how does it feel?

"It feels good, baby boy. Mm. Very good. Hot. You're so fucking worked up. Here. If you're gonna kick like that just put your— _mmph_ —put your knees up here— _God_ —is that all right?"

 

(more

(fuck me

(more

“Of course you remember how to say that,” Pat’s voice is amused, vibrates underneath Brian's legs, how it got there no one could guess. "All right. I'll give you what you want."

(pleaaaaaaaase

(oh yes

yes it’s good

v good k

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The comedown is not as slow as Brian remembers weed being. Only a few minutes pass, with them mixed up, sheets and hairy arms and naked skin and scratchy faces and smooth soft legs. It’s hard to tell when he’s touching a part of himself or a part of Patrick, but other than that, he’s coming to.

“How you doing, babe.”

Pat sounds really sleepy. Maybe they’ve been lying here for a long time, actually. Brian might have drifted for a while. He takes stock of himself. Good. Happy. Floaty. Sated. He thinks he came, but doesn’t honestly remember. He remembers Pat coming though, Pat’s voice, the pulsing, and how nothing hurt not even a _little_ , and the velvety touches, and not having to do anything at all.

“ ‘m good. Soo good. Sleepy.”

“Good,” Pat hugs him close, but not too tight. “You were beautiful. I enjoyed myself. I hope it was what you wanted.”

“Mmmhmm,” Brian sighs. “Perfect.”

“I love you, kid.”

“Me too,” Brian says, soft, into Pat’s chest.

Pat says something, but Brian can’t hear it, because sleep wins out, this time.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for:  
> \- drug use (weed),  
> \- sex while very high on drugs, although with previous consent,  
> \- anal & oral sex, although it might kinda be hard to tell. 
> 
>  
> 
> hmm this one kinda just falls asleep at the end abruptly but for SOME OF US THAT HAPPENS WITH WEED OKAY. also a) kidz dont do drugs and b) im not a cop so you can leave comments >;)


	26. - soft - (buzz 'round my tree)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat gets tingles. brian gets curious. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _so long as you kiss me / and the world around us shatters / how little it matters / how little we know_

** autonomous:  ** spontaneous, self-governing, with or without control

“It’s not a _sex_ thing, necessarily,” Pat says, exasperated. “It’s just a _thing_. It just happens.”

“But it happens to _you_.” Brian forces himself to stop his flirty, teasing whispers and settle down. He’s going to annoy Pat this way, and annoying Pat is _great_ fun, but Brian also really is desperately interested

(in what it feels like, in what causes it, in what other neurological responses Pat’s body has to offer)

and if he teases too much Pat will shut him up with either kisses or a ball gag and he’ll never find out.

“It’s not very interesting, kid. I think pretty much everybody gets it.”

“Nuh- _uh_ ,” Brian lets himself pout. He can’t resist touching a hand to the nape of Pat’s neck, brushing his fingers along, pressing aside the soft dark hair, searching for the source of the tingling beneath. “I don’t. And I’ve tried. I grew up on Youtube, Pat. I’ve watched preteens whispering and crinkling soda bottles just as much as anybody else.”

“And how much is that,” Pat murmurs.

“ _Plenty_. No tingles.”

“None from my voice?” Pat leans over, whispery rumble, in Brian’s ear. _Mmm_ , it’s good. His voice is…very good…buttery-dark and hot warm breath…sonorous slide and scratch…a murky melody plucked on well-worn strings…coarse and sweet as brown sugar…

Brian pushes him. “Hey! You’re distracting me. And licking is _not_ an auditory stimulus.”

“Just trying to help you have the experience,” Pat, in that dark-hot-low-soft tone, and licks again into the shell of Brian’s ear, and it is _not_ fair Brian is trying to ask a question here.

“So I’m definitely getting tingles but Pat. These are not non-sexual tingles. These are tingles directly in my groin.”

“Glad to know I do something for you.” Pat hums wickedly.

Brian forces himself to pull away from these tender attentions, because although they are _delightful_

(in a specifically non-scalp related and intricately sexually gratifying way)

if he lets them continue they are going to get him off task, and Brian wants to figure this thing out. He pushes away from where their bodies are close together, but not far—settles himself back on the sofa, so he’s perpendicular to Pat, his head on a pillow too far away to be kissed or fondled or distracted, while his legs stay across Pat’s lap. Trapping him.

“I want to know everything. Tell me exactly what it’s like. I hear it’s like a head orgasm _._ ”

The way Pat frowns and dips his head means he’s thinking, but also he’s a little self-conscious. “Uh. That’s not the worst description—I mean, it’s not _not_ sexual. It’s just not—how do I explain this. It’s pretty physical.”

“How does it start?”

“I dunno. You hear sounds and then your scalp feels weird. Neck sometimes.”

“What kind of sounds?”

“Gonna be honest, kid, I don’t have a list. Not that many. A few things.”

“Whispers?”

Pat shifts his head a little back and forth. “Not usually, honestly. Sometimes. Just certain words, certain voices. God, I feel bad for people who get it with all whispering. That would suck.”

“Why?”

The grimace is cute. “It’s kinda like getting a boner in your Spanish class or something. Embarrassing. You don’t have any control over it and it’s pretty, yknow, distracting. Especially if, like, it starts to build up. It really fucks with your head. That doesn’t happen too much to me, thank God.”

Brian files this away in his brain, because Pat is the kind of person who

(likes being recreationally humiliated sometimes)

is fun to tease, and so this information is _highly relevant to Brian’s interests._

“I need more than that. C’mon, what’s it feel like.”

“Kinda like having goosebumps?”

“Hmm. Like you’re cold?”

“Not really.”

“Then I dunno what you mean.”

Pat pauses, thinks about this. Brian adores it, his serious face, how hard he’s trying to explain, how deeply he’s plunging into his mind to reflect on these sensations for Brian’s amusement. Pat doesn’t think about these kinds of things often, about the ways that his body feels and whether those ways are the same or different as other bodies. Obsessing about the nuances of subjective human experience is Brian’s territory.

It seems like Pat’s found some words. “Think of if like—if I held my hand so close to your skin that you could feel my body heat, but I’m not touching you. It kind of starts like that.”

“Sounds subtle.”

“It’s usually subtle for me. Like, kinda intimate, but not a big deal. But it can—” Pat hesitates.

Brian nudges him, after a second. He’s holding back. “C’mon Pat Gill, give up the goods.”

Pat sighs. “—it can get pretty intense. Rarely. But like, when it does, it like bubbles up. Goes down your spine. If it hits my shoulders then I know I’m really in trouble.”

“I thought it felt good?”

“It does. Too good. Kinda dirty. Wrong. Like, there’s no reason it should be happening and I can’t stop it.” Leave it to Pat, to blush and squirm guiltily about something that feels too good. Fuck being raised Catholic. For _real_.

“That’s silly. Who cares if a sound makes you tingle? That’s not dirty.”

“You don’t understand,” Pat sighs. “It’s not just the tingles.”

“What else is there?”

The look Pat throws Brian is a little plaintive. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I won’t,” Brian says, gently stroking Pat’s arm. “I’m just really curious. About what it feels like to be you.”

Pat looks away from Brian when he continues. “I’m not sure if it’s the same, but when it’s strong, I kind of feel like you look when you’re floaty from a scene. When it’s really strong. Really comfortable. Vulnerable. Helpless. I feel like a little kid who’s falling asleep somewhere safe.”

Brian lets his thumb rest on Pat’s elbow. “Wow. That’s—I’m kinda jealous now, actually.”

Pat gives a little snort. “Don’t be. It fucking sucks. It makes haircuts really embarrassing.”

“You get it from haircuts?”

“Yeah. Really bad, actually.” He brushes his hair back self-consciously. “That’s probably the strongest it ever is. I fucking hate it.”

Brian blinks. “You are really sending me some mixed messages here, Pat Gill. It sounds like subspace. I _love_ subspace. You’re saying it feels good. Comfortable. How could you hate it?”

“I’m not on intimate terms with my fucking barber,” Pat scowls. “I just can’t—look, it’s not normal _._ That I like walk into this place and go do something that everyone else does and it melts me into the floor. It’s like I’m paying a stranger to fuck me. And we have to chit-chat while they do it.” 

“That’s a strong reaction,” Pat’s upset, now, at least a little, and Brian tries to make sure his voice is gentle but not _so_ gentle that Pat notices him being gentle, because he’ll find that frustrating. “Sorry if I annoyed you too much.” 

“It’s fine,” Pat presses his eyes closed. “Not annoyed. Sorry.”

“You’re really tense,” Brian observes. “Did I freak you out?”

“No,” Pat says shortly. “I’m just—” He huffs out a breath. “ _Please_ don’t fuck with me at work, okay? You can fuck with me at home if you want. But I’ll fucking die if you figure out how to turn me into a kitten at my desk. Please.”

Brian winces a little, because although he’d like to say that he wasn’t thinking about it, that would definitely be a lie. He was contemplating it. At least when he started this conversation. Not anymore. “I won’t,” he promises. At Pat’s skeptical, anxious look, he insists. “I really won’t. I know that I tease you a lot. But like, I wouldn’t want to be in subspace at work. Especially if I couldn’t control it. I get that.”

“Thank you,” Pat pulls off his glasses, and his brow is a little less furrowed. “Sorry. Not trying to imply that—I _do_ like it when you torture me. Just this one would be tough in public.”

Brian nods and gives a little smile. “I know I’m a little shit. It’s fair to tell me what not to do. I might have tried it. I just get really curious about what makes you tick, Pat Gill.”

“I know,” Pat says, and his voice is easier now. “It’s flattering, kid. No one cares about my head tingles. _I_ don’t even care about my head tingles. It feels funny to have someone that interested in me.”

“I am obsessively interested in you,” Brian says, and he means it.                                               

Pat pulls his arm at this, wanting their bodies closer. Brian obliges, sitting up so he ends up quite comfortably in Pat’s lap, turned so that Pat can kiss lightly at the nape of his neck, and give him his own pleasant, warm, spreading tingly sensations.

“You can fuck with me at home, if you like,” Pat murmurs into Brian’s hair. “I wouldn’t mind. If you want to experiment on me. Satisfy your curiosity.”

Brian shivers because he _would like very much_. He wants desperately to catalog every single solitary thing that makes Pat feel open and warm and soft and vulnerable, every little tick or tap or word or rustle, and it feels incredible that Pat would let him do that.

“Would you ever let me cut your hair?” Brian asks, because he likes to go big or go home.

Pat stills, then sighs. “Probably.”

“Wow.” Brian feels floaty himself. “You _really_ trust me.”

“I really do,” says Pat, squeezing him. “Also, I mean, it would save me like twenty bucks.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ** sensory  ** pertaining to the senses or sensation

Pat knows he’s in trouble when he catches the kid watching ASMR videos with a notebook.

It’s the good kind of trouble, though. The kind of trouble that makes Pat feel warm inside. It shouldn’t—the way Brian looks at him like he wants to pin him down and _vivisect_ him—but there’s just something nice about watching the kid smooth over his pages and scrawl intricate tables of notes with his little green-tipped fingers.

“What are you writing?” he asks, leaning over the desk.

“Stop peeking,” Brian mutters, covering it with his body.

“Oh Christ,” Pat laughs. “There’s a methodology section?”

“You can read it when it’s published,” Brian says primly. Pat can’t resist his urge to tickle the kid, and wrestle the cute little composition book away from him.

“ _Noooo_ ,” Brian whines, helplessly, as Pat’s fingers pinch and prod him and he can’t keep his grip up in the onslaught. 

“Aha,” Pat grins, holding his prize up high, other hand on Brian’s shoulder.

“Stop stealing my  _booooks_ you’re giving me middle school flashbacks.”

“You can have it back if you write my next English paper.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” Brian looks up, pouting. “Just _please_ don’t look. You’ll ruin all the controls.”

“Far be it from me to mess with science.” Pat hands it back to the kid, still curious about the details, but willing to wait. “I guess I shouldn’t ask what you’re gonna do to me, then? It’d ruin the experiment?”

“I just want to figure out what gives you tingles,” Brian admits. “I got a lot of triggers. Mostly sounds. But I want to see if we can map out the particular stimuli and how they interact.”

“Interact?”

“Like, so, it’s not just auditory _,_ ” Brian is adorably excited to explain this—and although Pat feels a curl of anxiety he knows that this enthusiasm is precious and he’d never do anything to get in its way. “There’s also like. Visual components. Close attention. People looking at you. Touching your head and your face. Gentle smiling. It’s kinda of a primate grooming thing.” He pauses. “It’s okay if I blindfold you, right?”

“Hoo boy,” Pat feels his shoulders tense, but forces them down. “Yeah, yeah, that’s all right. I guess.”

“It’ll probably make it _less_ intense,” Brian says, placating. “I would guess that the visual part intensifies things because it interacts with whatever psychological associations you have with being cared for.”

“I knew this was gonna be about my childhood,” Pat allows himself to sulk. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have to _talk_ about it,” Brian spins around to face him, looking up earnestly.

“No, just let you root around in my psyche looking for the most delicate bits.” Whatever made this thing happen to his scalp—to his brain—Pat's sure it's embarrassing and revelatory in a way that will be deeply uncomfortable. It'll be a wrench, letting Brian figure it out, pull out his vulnerable parts and tapdance on them. But Pat'll let him do it. That's what he does.

“I don’t have to,” Brian says, and he sounds—like he’s trying, very very hard, not to sound disappointed. Pat feels a little pang. “It’s okay if you don’t want that.”

“No, no, fuck it,” Pat sighs, and brushes his hair back. “The final report will be illuminating. I dunno what’s going on in there but I might as well have a little fun with it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Brian says, with such happiness that it’s worth it. Literally anything would be worth it. 

“Need anything from me?” Pat asks, before he loses the nerve. “Ideas?”

“If you know anything that triggers you, that’d be great, actually.”

Pat thinks about that. “Uh. Fuck. Um. I don’t have a lot for you. Besides the haircut thing. I already told you that most whispers don’t do it for me, right?”

“Yup. Got that down.” Brian tilts his head. “That being said, any particular kinds of voices work better? Male? Female? High-pitched?”

“I don’t think so, kid, sorry. I mean, probably, but if so I don’t know.”

“What about particular words?”

Pat blinks. “Well, shit. Now that you mention it. I never really put it together but I really…wow this is gonna sound stupid, but as long as I can remember the word _chocolate_ was like. Especially nice. If you say it a certain way.”

“Chocolate?”

Pat shakes his head. No tingles, there. “Not like that. More like—two syllables. Softer.”

“Choc-late?”

A little better, but he’s not hitting the sound quite right, and Pat can’t figure out how to explain what’s up, other than that when _some_ people say it, it makes him feel fucking _good_. Which he’s never really stopped to ponder before. Other people don't probably feel like that. Fuck. “Not quite. But something like that.”

Brian scribbles something down. “Okay, _super_ useful. Thanks.”

Pat hovers, just for a second more, a little nervous still to walk away from this kid’s careful plots to dissect his mind. “Um. Can I read your notes? When they’re done, I mean. Not before you do your thing. Just…after?”

Brian looks up again. “Of course! I’d like that.” He grins, for reasons Pat can only guess.

 

 

 

 ** meridian  ** – 1\. midday; noon  2\. hence: the highest point, as of success, prosperity or the like; culmination

**~*~*~*~ INITIAL OBSERVATIONS ~*~*~*~**

Having obtained IRB permission, the testing procedure was plotted out by the intrepid & sexy boy wonder researcher. Potential triggers and unlikely triggers were chosen (following Barrat & Davis 2015) and a 5-point psychophysical scale was established in collaboration with the research subject, such that:

 

> 0 = no tingles this feels normal  
>  1 = little something  
>  2 = buzzy and distracting  
>  3 = as bad as a haircut  
>  4 = fucking hell brian i hope it doesn’t get worse than haircuts

Subject also consented to describe the feeling & its duration, including the following qualitative questions: (A) where on the body did it start? (B) where and how did it spread? (C) is it sexy?

Subject reported first ASMR experiences in childhood. Recall of the _shiverees_ game from elementary school, although knows it as “dot dot line line” as opposed to “going on a treasure hunt,” which is clearly blasphemy. Subject admits rare participation because it was “a girl thing.” Subject now repents of previous stance on appropriate gender performance re: masculinity & physical intimacy, but like, it’s cool. No one’s woke when they’re eight, Pat.

No known synaesthesia. Reports frisson regularly in association with “really good music that’s also, yknow, emotional.” When pushed for examples, subject cited one of the experimenter’s songs, and the initial interview was prematurely terminated in favor of kissing.

 

**~*~*~*~ EXPERIMENT 1: SOUNDS : RESULTS ~*~*~*~**

Explorations of various sounds produced the following consistent findings that positively correlated with sensation strength: (1) real-life (over video) stimulation, (2) visual components — especially eye contact, (3) slow and deliberate movements, (4) subject in relaxed environment, like bed, (5) cold room temperature.

Brushing, scratching, and tearing sounds were almost universally neutral, despite ASMR community reports. Some notable sensations:

  * **ticking clock:** _That’s not bad. I like that one. 2._
  * **fake fingernails tapping on hard plastic stuff or glass:** _That does it. That’s a 3._
  * **literally any squishy sound:** _I don’t know what number it is but I fucking hate it, Brian._
  * **scratching fingers on cotton:** _That makes me want to die._
  * **ice & water shaking in a thick plastic bag:** _That’s actually really good. 3. No I don’t know why that’s better than the other wet stuff. It just sounds good, okay?_
  * **certain jars opening very slowly:** _At least a 2. Maybe 3. If like, the sound is rounder. No, not a rounder jar. I mean. I don’t know. Sometimes it’s good. That one hits my lower back for some reason._
  * **book pages turning:** _Definitely a 2._
  * **ice in a glass of whisky:** _Okay I’m really fond of that but I can’t say if it’s an ASMR thing or not._



Video stimuli worked with both male and female ASMRtists. When asked to rank performer hotness, subject blushed and refused, but did admit that attractiveness of ASMRtist made a lot of difference. Was grouchy when experimenter laughed.

 

**~*~*~*~ EXPERIMENT 2: AFFECT : RESULTS ~*~*~*~**

Initial plans to explore video stimuli of intimate self-care roleplaying experiences (following Anderson, 2014) were scrapped due to excessive distress on part of subject. Haircut videos were vetoed outright. Subject consented to try watching a scalp massage ASMR video but terminated the experiment at 1:03 with the note “ _dear god please don’t make me do this I can’t be whispered at by this Korean girl for twenty minutes I already feel like a pervert.”_ Subject declined interest in other genders and/or races for further video experimentation.

 

**~*~*~*~ EXPERIMENT 3: WORDS : RESULTS ~*~*~*~**

Results are presented as a series of chronological observations by the experimenter.

  * Initial testing revealed 3/10 voices where _chocolate_ produced tingles of 2+. Experimenter’s voice is not one. Experimenter is deeply wounded.
  * Voice doesn’t have to be a whisper. Soft is better though.
  * Subject report: _It has to hit the “c” in the right way, okay? That’s all I know._
  * Other words that work: _skittles, click (if you hit it hard, like 2 syllables)_
  * Experimenter practiced saying _chocolate_ all day and subject laughed at him. Subject is mean.
  * Misses: _sleep, lovely, bubble, whiskey_. Hits: _“sk”_ sound,  _tingle._  Experimental subject does not appreciate irony that _tingle_ cause tingles.
  * Misses: _check, species, kabob._ Hits: _oak, kabuki_.
  * Experimenter has succeeded in pronouncing _chocolate._ Told you I could get it.
  * Misses: Hits: _cookbook, consider, octopus, loch ness_.
  * THE WORD _COCK_ TINGLES WHEN I CAN SAY IT RIGHT!!



Experiment halted because: (a) experimenter has found the best word, and (b) experimenter has been unable to resist sneaking up on subject to say it. Subject reports strong tingles in at least two locations, and threatens to inflict tingles on experimenter behind if experiment is not rapidly concluded.

 

                                                                                

 

 

 

 ** response:  ** referring to an experience triggered by something external or internal

Although he grouses, Pat kind of enjoys letting Brian sit on his back and pin down his hands and whisper filthy stories in his ears. He can hit the _ck_ sound in _cock_ and _fuck_ in the way that makes Pat’s brain tingle—because he’s put some goddamn work into it, the kid has—and moreover, he says things that are so hideously filthy that Pat feels quite a few other tingles as well. Those particular tingles that make him moan and grind into the mattress below him helplessly.                                                                                                  

After Brian presents his results, a few pages of purple gel pen and graph paper, Pat feels amused and also stripped bare, but he figures that’ll be the end of it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Can we do a doctor’s office thing?” Brian says suddenly, one day when they’re walking to lunch.

Pat’s surprised. Brian’s never talked about that before. “Sure, kid. Just tell me what you want examined.”

Brian grins and flips his hair. “Not that, Patrick. Although you can give me a prostate exam any time. I meant the other way.”

“Oh,” Pat nods. He has no particular medical fantasies, that he knows of, but…he could probably work with that. Brian, in a position of authority, smooth and professional and polished and handsome. Pat, half-naked and red as a beet and unsure, trying to obey orders and ending up in a haze of humiliated endorphins. It does fit, actually. “Sure, I could do that.”

Brian dimples. “You’d like it?”

“Probably. What’re you gonna do?”

“Hmmm,” Brian brushes back his hair. “Not sure, yet. Do any medical things, like, make you nervous?”

“Not usually. But I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Nothing to be nervous about, Patrick,” Brian says, pressing briefly on his chest with a steady hand. “I’m just gonna give you a checkup. All you have to do is stay still, and tell me exactly what everything feels like.”

“ _God_ ,” Pat breathes, because he can suddenly see it. Brian, with his tools and his lab coat, leaning over him, all smiles, asking him to explain what it feels like when he…

Brian presses his lips close to Pat’s ear, quickly, and grabs Pat’s hair to stop him walking in his tracks. “ _Doc_ tor Gilbert will take care of you.”

And oh fuck—

he hits that _ock_ sound in that particular way, the way that makes Pat’s brain tingle—

and Pat’s body thrills with fear, because of course, of _course_ Brian is looking to strip him bare in new and clinically interesting ways. Dear lord in heaven above.

“No dental stuff, please,” he begs. “You pull out a drill and I’ll have a panic attack.”

“Got it,” Brian kisses him and releases. “Anything else off limits?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat’s already fucking trembling when Brian knocks and emerges in his doctor’s coat and stethoscope. The kid’s done a lot of pre-pro, to get him this way. They’re in Brian’s room, so everything feels a little alien, and who the fuck knows where he got this metal folding table, but it’s cold and impersonal on Pat’s bare ass. Sure, it’s not like a _perfect_ recreation of a doctor’s office, but it’s close enough—the kid’s cleaned up a lot, and he’s got some stuff scattered around that looks oddly clinical, and the flimsy paper gown alone does a lot of work.

“Hello, Patrick,” Brian says warmly, and shakes his hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Dr. Gilbert, and I’ll be doing your neurological examination today.”

“Okay,” Pat says, even though he has no fucking clue what that entails and it scares the living shit out of him. Brian looks good. Hair perfect, he’s just walked off the set of ER. His smile is practiced, and it makes Pat feel even more shivery, with his feet off the ground and his own facial expression unguarded.

“Let’s start with vitals, hmm?” Brian says easily. “Blood pressure, you know the drill.”

Pat does. He’s been to a doctor, and it _shouldn’t_ be strange, having Brian fit the cuff around his upper arm. His touch is oddly electric, though, where his fingers touch Pat’s wrist. But it only takes a few moments. And it’s fairly professional, all things considered. Could’ve fooled him, that Brian knew how to do this.

Ears, nose, and throat are equally clinical, and if Brian has some particular interest in them Pat can’t tell the difference. It’s funny and ticklish, to be examined, but not particularly strange. He can say _aaah_ , and he knows his earwax isn’t sexy in the least. Still, the confident, gentle way that Brian manipulates his head is starting to make him feel odd. Cripes almighty the tingles are already starting. He didn’t even know he could get them, from just this.

“Now let’s have a listen,” Brian says with a gentle smile, pulling the stethoscope around his neck to his ears.

It’s fucking _cold_ —

of _course_ Brian would press it to his nipple without warning—it’s cold even through the paper—

but Pat tries not to flinch too much. 

“Sorry,” Brian says, gently, and draws back. He opens his mouth wide to huff a hot breath onto the offending metal, _entirely_ too close to Pat’s face, and Pat blushes as the warm, wet air finds his lips, too. Fucking hell, Brian.

Brian keeps his head very close while he listens to Pat’s breathing, both on his chest and on his back, but he doesn’t do anything too wild. Pat licks his lips nervously.

“All right, Patrick,” Brian says. “Let’s just have your temperature and then we’re done with the basics.”

He pulls out a little thermometer and slides it under Pat’s tongue with exquisite delicacy. Pat’s fairly sure doctors are not supposed to hold your chin while they wait for the temperature to register, but who is he to judge? Brian has a light, approving smile and it’s hard to imagine pulling away.

A beat passes. Brian is just _looking_ at him. Fucking hell.

The thing beeps and Pat is relieved as Brian pulls it out, lets go. He’s frowning, when he looks at it, though. Oh jesus—

“Hmm. That can’t be right. Let’s have another try, shall we?”

He slips it back under Pat’s tongue without waiting for agreement. Pat has no choice but to wait.

“There we are,” Brian says, an interminable amount of time later, when the thing beeps and he pulls it out. “That’s what we needed. Very good.”

Pat lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. For a moment he was afraid—

“Now, Patrick,” Brian says, pressing his hand gently into Pat’s shoulder. “We’re ready to start. I’m going to do a complete workup for you, so it’s going to take a little bit. Are you ready?”

His face is so fucking _close_ , and he’s looking at Pat with such intensity, and speaking so fucking softly. It gives Pat that strange feeling, tingly, trusting, pliant. “Ready,” Pat says, almost against his own will, as a hand cradles the back of his head. The small movements are intoxicating.

“Follow my finger with your eyes,” Brian says softly. His hand tightens in Pat’s hair, stopping his head from moving, as he obeys. It’s simple, the finger moving back and forth. He seems to do all right. “Good. Now, I’m going to have you make some facial movements for me, all right?”

“All right,” Pat murmurs. The hand is still behind his head, rubbing gentle circles.

“Raise both your eyebrows.” Easy enough. “Frown.” Not hard. “Show all your teeth.” Fine. “Smile.” A little awkward, but Pat assumes that an awkward-photograph smile will work. “Puff out your cheeks.” It’s annoying, how Brian’s mouth quirks into a little smile, but it’s fine.

“Now, let’s test cranial nerve nine and ten. Open your mouth wide, please. I’m going to gag you.”

Terrifying. Pat does it anyway.

Brian brushes his little depressor into the back of Pat’s throat, just a quick light tap. It doesn’t hurt.

“Not a very strong gag reflex,” Brian observes, and his tone is amused. “That’s true for some people, I suppose.”

Pat closes his eyes briefly, allowing himself to enjoy the hot rush of embarrassment. Brian is really _too much_ , sometimes.

“Now close your eyes tight. I’m going to try to open them.”

It feels…really odd, Brian trying to force his eyes open, but he can’t manage it. Pat’s face strength is sufficient, he supposes. He also sticks out his tongue, when directed, and shrugs his shoulders. He lets Brian make a rustling sound in each ear, and reports _left_ or _right_. He lets Brian manipulate his jaw a bit, resists when asked.

“If you had to give me a number right now,” Brian says softly. “Where would you be, tingle-wise?”

“A two,” Pat says, slowly. “Edging toward a three.”

“Good. You can open your eyes now.”

 _Fuck_ Brian is still very close, and still cradling his head and looking into Pat’s eyes with an intensity that is very…intimate. He’s so close that Pat can feel his breath.

“Good. We’ll finish up with the trigeminal nerve.” This means nothing to Pat, but the hand leaving his head and the rustling certainly means that Brian is going to get something. “Are you feeling nervous, Patrick?”

“Not really. But I don’t know what a trigeminal nerve is,” Pat admits.

“I’m going to test some of the sensation in your face,” Brian explains, very softly, and very close again. “I’m going to touch a few things to your forehead, your cheeks and your chin. I need you to tell me exactly what you feel, and where. That’s all. Nothing will hurt. All right?”

“All right.”

“You still sound tense, Patrick.”

“Do I? I feel pretty relaxed, honestly.” The cold bench is warm and fine now, actually, and although it’s a _lot,_ the staring and the touching, the feelings have been mostly simple and only lightly flirty. The prickles have soothed out into a tingly wash of sensation that runs down his scalp. It’s not _unpleasant_ , certainly, and though it’s not particularly erotic it feels quite nice.

Brian looks hesitant for a second, as if his schtick has been wrong-footed. Pat can’t help but smile.

“What do you do to your patients if they’re feeling tense?”

The glance he gets is cute. Sort of a wry _stop-guessing-my-tricks_ look. But Pat just shrugs a shoulder.

“I wouldn’t mind help relaxing, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Brian sighs and brushes Pat’s hair back, tips up his chin, his expression a little less polished, for a moment. “I wanted to try and get you to a solid three. Or even a four, if you’d let me. But I don’t want to push you unless you’re comfortable with it.”

“I’m comfortable,” Pat says, and finds he is. “Do your worst, doc.”

Brian smiles. “All right, Pat. I got some sounds for you, okay?” He pulls his iPod out of his pocket and Pat feels a thrill of nerves. Of course the kid’s put a track together. How could it be anything different.

It’s very gentle, how Brian brushes back his hair and tucks the buds in his ears. His concentrated little expression is quite dear, actually.

“Tell me if it’s too loud,” he says, and Pat nods.

It’s…interesting, the sonic experience. It’s got some layers to it, rain patters and ticking and scissor snips and pleasant little taps. No words, at least not yet. Pat wonders if maybe Brian made it himself, because one of the jars sounds familiar, but honestly maybe all jars sound the same—although they don’t all sound the same to _Pat_ , because some of them do strange things to his shoulders.

While he listens, Brian is looking at him closely and gently touching his face with a Q-tip, and Pat takes a long second to remember that he’s supposed to be saying _chin_ or _cheek_ or _forehead_. “Oh, sorry,” he murmurs, and tries, and Brian smiles, as if he doesn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, when Pat starts to hesitate in his responses—it’s so hard, with the _feeling_ —Brian stops with the Q-tip entirely, and lets the scene sort of disintegrate. He shucks his coat, and just continues staring affectionately and slowly stroking Pat’s hair.

“That’d be more than a three,” Pat gets out, eventually, when the feeling washes back over his eyebrows and down to his elbows. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Is it nice?”

“It’s wild,” Pat breathes. “I want to try this when I’m high.”

Brian grins beatifically. “That can be arranged.”

“I _will_ let you cut my hair, if it feels like this.”

“Let’s not make commitments in an altered state,” Brian taps a finger in the crook of his elbow, gently. “I’m really glad it feels good. I was afraid you’d panic.”

“This feels like the opposite of panic,” Pat sighs. “Did you make this?”

“Yup. You hear your altoids tin?”

“Thank you,” Pat says softly. “I dunno what I expected. But not this.”

“You wanna lie down? I hear it makes people sleepy, when it goes on and on. I only made about ten minutes but I looped it.”

“Yeah,” Pat nods. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Brian takes his hand and leads him to bed. Pat feels silly and small, curling on top of the covers with his odd paper gown and letting Brian hold him close and kiss the back of his neck, but he also feels oddly nice and unbashful, for once. He wants to say something, to tell Brian something sappy, like  _please never stop pushing me to do weird shit._ But it's just too fucking comfortable, the sensation. He lets himself drift, instead. Brian knows. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for: not a lot in this one. it's excessively cutesy, though, and contains mentions of Science. 
> 
>  
> 
> iono if this one is interesting at all, actually. tingleheads: i tried my best. i don't recreationally do ASMR vids but i do get it from some specific things. would love any crits. nontingleheads: SORRY ITS NOT SEXY AT ALL.


	27. - pain, part 2 -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat is hurting. brian hurts him more. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _guess I have my father’s heart / and it may or may not keep on trying / can’t really tell you what it is / keeps me this side of that dark line_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> significant warnings, this one is not about sex but childhood trauma & homophobia. see endnotes. also, this one is a direct followup to ch24 - #12.0 pure because when i said all the chapters stand alone i was LYING.

 

 

>  
> 
> **it’s bad simone  
>  i don’t know what to do**
> 
> just calm. down. bri  
>  he gets like this  
>  sorry i wont be back til the new year  
>  normally i handle this.
> 
> **i thought it’d get better this week but it’s just been worse and worse**  
>  **he can barely even look at me**  
>  **he’s so fucking mad**  
>  **simone**  
>  **what do I do**
> 
> hes not mad at you baby boy
> 
> **it doesn’t matter!**
> 
> chill kid  
>  if you freak out itll freak him out  
>  so heres what you do. ok.  
>  1\. text simone  
>  look at you already on the right track  
>  what a smart fuckin boyfriend.
> 
> **haha  
>  ok but what’s TWO though?**
> 
> patience young jedi  
>  the tao of pat is v slow
> 
> **you’re typing for so long it’s freaking me out**
> 
> 2a. pull up your cobbled together knowledge of things that make pat panic. start testing things until one makes him flinch. lean into that one aggressively until hes so angry he can admit he needs help. offer help. if he doesnt accept repeat. when he does accept, fuck him really mean and say nasty shit until you figure out whats gonna make him cry.
> 
> 2b. (cheat code) its his dad
> 
> **jeez that’s a lot**
> 
> yup  
>  oh also i should have mentioned this is like a 4 step plan  
>  step 2 is pretty much always ‘its his dad’ though  
>  although i distinctly recall it being ‘its how much he wants to fuck his cute coworker’
> 
> **!**  
>  **he got this upset**  
>  **about me?**
> 
> lol he had it bad for you baby boy
> 
> **okay i’m still freaking out  
>  but pausing the freakout for a second because **
> 
> you are too funny kid
> 
> **what did you do? when he was upset about me?**
> 
> same thing i do every night pinky  
>  try to take over the world.  
>  actually. thats not true.  
>  that one was a lil different.  
>  it was a real Freudian anal fixation thing  
>  thats when we started pegging
> 
> **wow  
>  why? **
> 
> that’s step 3  
>  3\. cut him open  
>  metaphorically. I mean  
>  and grope around in there until you get your hands on whatever hurts most  
>  and then try to give him a story that makes sense for why it hurts that fucking bad
> 
> **what do you mean  
>  what kind of story **
> 
> it doesnt have to be perfect  
>  like with the pegging  
>  i knew he wanted to ask you out  
>  and i knew that sticking my finger in his ass during a blowjob nearly made him go ballistic on me  
>  so i just connected some dots
> 
> **how?**
> 
> its not very nice bri
> 
> **tell me  
>  please**
> 
> its weird I feel a little self conscious about it  
>  that’s not. very. common. for this old girl
> 
> **I won’t judge you**
> 
> i know bb  
>  its just weird because i didnt know you as well then
> 
> **yeah? did you think I’d be a top?**
> 
> no offense meant but no
> 
> **lol**
> 
> i knew youd be a real sweety but  
>  i didnt know you could hang
> 
> **?**
> 
> i didnt know you were a wild and crazy little sex maniac bri lol god why you make me say it
> 
> **aww simone I’m blushing**
> 
> slut.
> 
> **< 3**
> 
> so anyway i knew he wanted to pound your little twink ass  
>  and i knew he had a real  
>  my walnut is my temple thing  
>  going on at the time  
>  so I just called him a coward a lot haha  
>  and told him a real man could take it up the ass without crying  
>  and how was he ever gonna get the fucking balls to ask you out  
>  if he couldn’t even do what like  
>  pardon my language  
>  a real faggot could do on the reg  
>  you get the gist.
> 
> **interesting spin on toxic masculinity**
> 
> not SUPER proud of it but  
>  you gotta get to step four some how.
> 
> **what’s step 4?**
> 
> hang on cause i dont think you really understand step 3 yet
> 
> **no I get it I think**  
>  **you made it like a dare**  
>  **prove that you can do this**
> 
> kind of  
>  that is definitely true on some level  
>  but pats a smart boy bri  
>  he knows the shit i say is really really bullshit  
>  he knows that like being gay isnt bad  
>  and he knws that taking it up the ass doesnt make you gay  
>  and that its stupid to like be afraid of being  
>  a real gay  
>  or a real man
> 
> **ah  
>  but he needs to hear it?**
> 
> right. because its just feelings.  
>  these really strong fucking feelings bri  
>  that kid. feels things. so hard and so long.  
>  god i hate to imagine what hes gonna tell a therapist about me some day
> 
> **why?  
>  cause they might start sending you referrals?**
> 
> lol  
>  you scamp  
>  youre really nice.  
>  so anyway. step 3 was  
>  say some nasty shit that connects up with how hes feeling about himself  
>  because im not afraid of making an ass of myself
> 
> **word**
> 
> and step 4 is like  
>  kinda unspoken for us  
>  it happens in his head so I dunno what he thinks of it  
>  I think he looks at me and is like  
>  wow that was so fucking cruel  
>  i gotta cut my brain off from thinking like this bitch  
>  because she is PSYCHO  
>  so then he can let it go
> 
> **hmm  
>  i dunno**
> 
> you dont think so?
> 
> **I mean you would probably know better than me it’s your scene**
> 
> nah  
>  pat talks to you a lot more than me  
>  its just a thing we do. because it worked  
>  i could be reading too much into it  
>  maybe the boy just needs some endorphins
> 
> **maybe**  
>  **I have a guess but**  
>  **it’s kind of philosophical mumbo jumbo**
> 
> shoot.
> 
> **its probably useful?**  
>  **to watch you**  
>  **step into a certain epistemic frame**  
>  **and understand it**  
>  **and then get out of it**
> 
> hmm. because he needs to?
> 
> **just to remmber like  
>  were only a subset of the people we could be at any given moment**
> 
> MATH  
>  NO
> 
> **lol**  
>  **sorry**
> 
> its ok its ok a joke  
>  mathematical vocabulary is very triggering to me
> 
> **a better way to say it would be  
>  you’re mean and you’re sexy and you hit hard and you’re really fucking scary and you’re also really amazing and nice and kind and generous and good and friendly**
> 
> dont forget that I make the best waffles.
> 
> **also that!**
> 
> lol well thank you bri i think i was supposed to be making YOU feel better  
>  but now i feel like all warm and fuzzy and grossly romantic  
>  like i want to CUDDLE  
>  EW
> 
> **lol im sorry**
> 
> nah its good ill burn it off tonight when i go get lit and real rowdy at the bar  
>  you gonna be ok with patrick?
> 
> **I still don’t know what I’m going to do  
>  but you definitely helped**
> 
> just remember youre not gonna fuck it up  
>  not worse than its already fucked  
>  be confident that youre the best  
>  and dont pull any punches.
> 
> **thanks simone <3**

 

 

 

It’s annoying, when Pat struggles to turn the key and it’s pulled out of his hands when Brian opens his door.

Fuckin _hell_. He thought the kid went home sick. The hell is he fucking doing _here—_

“Hey Pat.”

_that’s not a very nice thing to think about your fucking boyfriend, Patrick, you asshole, he’s probably here because you’re a fucking wreck this week and you’re terrifying him_

“Hey.”

Brian’s cooking. Something smells—heartwrenchingly good.

“How was your day?”

“Long.”

“Yeah? Anything drag out in particular?”

“Nah. Just couldn’t get anything done.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

Pat turns away abruptly and finds the sofa, his laptop. Brian turns back to whatever he’s finishing on the stove—chicken, maybe?—it’s in the cast-iron pan that Pat stole from his mom’s house. It was his grandmother’s, and a rusty old relic, and he was pretty sure she never used it—

though of course, maybe a month after ne nicked it his mom was complaining about where it had gone because she wanted to fry some chicken—

and Pat didn’t cop to it, because he’s a fucking asshole and sometimes freezes about stuff like that—

but he _did_ buy her a new one, at least. Even though according to Brian the new ones they make aren’t as nice as the antique ones. Something about the finish, or the weight, or what the fuck ever. So he regretted taking it, because apparently she did use it for something, rust notwithstanding—

the rust wasn’t hard to get off, anyway, easier than seasoning the old dutch oven in Scouts—

but though he regrets taking it, he’s never taking it back, because Brian likes using it, and he likes that it’s old, and that it’s from Pat’s grandma. Even though he’s never gonna get a chance to meet that grandma, and she was kind of a salty old hag anyway. She wouldn’t have liked Brian, probably.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Work.”

“You sure?”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean.”

 _Don’t you do it Patrick. Don’t you dare take this out on him._ Pat grits his teeth, huffs out a breath. Prepares to take his tone down a notch or three, when the kid apologizes.

“I mean that I don’t think you’re thinking about work.”

Pat looks up. Brian’s stirring, and not looking at him. “…oh? So what _am_ I thinking, then.”

“Probably about your family. You’ve been weird since you came back from Christmas.”

 _Christ._ Pat bites back an answer that is _nasty_ , shutting his laptop sharply as if it will shut away the thought. Fuck. He can’t do this. Brian is feeling _sick._ He’s cooking Pat _dinner_. He’s _worried_ about Pat. If Pat doesn’t figure out how to get the fuck out of this conversation, he’s going to say something he regrets. He knows himself at least _that_ well.

He gets up to find his headphones. “I gotta edit something before I go to bed tonight.”

“ ‘Kay. Can you come help me with this, first?”

 _Not a good idea_. “Sure.”

“Great. Hold this.” He gestures vaguely, but Pat knows what he wants. The pan’s heavy. Iron, duh. Brian can’t hold it and scrape at the same time, not confidently. He’ll do it, if he’s alone, but if Pat’s there he prefers a hand.

Pat hovers, for a second, while Brian finishes piling things in the pot. He seems tense, too. But deliberate.

“What’re you cooking?”

“Coq au vin.” Brian flashes a smile. “New recipe, so I hope it works out. I know you like the old one a lot. So I hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

“It smells just as good.” Pat runs a hand through his hair. The kid is _picking recipes for him_. What the fuck did he do to deserve this.

 _Nothing_ , something in him says, and he _shoves_ it down hard. Lifts the pan. At least he can do _that_.

Brian scrapes out the fond rather carefully—

new word, fond, Brian taught him that—

and doesn’t look at Pat, but keeps talking to him, because the universe isn’t fucking fair. “What was up at home?”

_Really? Really? You’re gonna fucking flinch at basic questions, Patrick? _

“Just the same old.”

“Nothing new? You’re so much more upset than you usually are when you see them.”

His tone is so fucking _calm_ , that Pat’s virulence makes no goddamn sense.

“I got shit to finish, kid, so if you’re done with me let me put this damn thing down.”

“All right,” Brian shrugs, turns away. “I’ll need you again in like five, when I do the onions.”

“Fine. Just tap me or something.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat doesn’t do any work, of course. He does look at the screen, and try to meditate

_—you’re so much more upset than you usually are—_

but it feels like the

— _any luck with the ladies, Patrick?—_

thoughts are not

— _I’ll tell you the rest later—_

“floating away” or whatever

_—I’m not a fucking fag—_

they’re supposed to do

— _why are you being such a baby? are you embarrassed of me?—_

when you meditate right

— _if you don’t stay the fuck away from that little greaseball then I’ll—_

it fact they just kind of

— _I like her, Patrick, she’s a keeper—_

echo and build

_—we’re at my mother’s, David, and you can’t see him—_

attaching to each other and

— _you remind me of me when I was your age—_

making connections that he really doesn’t want to think about, please

_—you’re a real asshole, Patrick, and it’s fucking over—_

“…Pat?”

 _“Jesus_ ,” he jerks, because the kid’s _so close fuck—_

and he jerks so bad that Brian startles too and intakes a breath and recoils with a soft little “ _shit_ , Pat”

and that makes him feel guilty—

his face scowls at Brian for being startled—which makes no fucking sense—

but it makes Brian say _sorry_ , and run a hand through his hair.

“Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that,” he growls.

“Sorry. You told me to tap you.”

That is…factual. Fuck.

“Right, right. Sorry.”

Brian gets out of his face, wordlessly, and heads back to the kitchen. Pat takes a breath and pushes himself up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian presses the pan into his hand again, and has him tilt it, and scrapes the onions slowly, and while he’s doing it he says.

“Did you tell them about me? Your parents? Is that why you’re upset?”

_Fuck_

_Bang_

He dropped it, he realized. The pan. Just on the stove. But that could have been dangerous. Brian’s in bare feet.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” Pat turns away.

“I’ll go with you. Give me two minutes,” Brian says, again, in that calm way. “That’s all I need. Then I can get it in the oven and it’s good.”

Pat’s already got his coat on, though, patting the pockets for keys, wallet. “No.”

“C’mon, it’s just one more thing. Then the wine goes in and it’s good.”

“Fucking _stop it._ ”

“Tell me what to stop.”

“I can’t. I don’t know what your _fucking game_ is.”

“Then just help me out for, like, a second. Here—dice this up for me—then I’ll leave you alone.”

Pat recoils from Brian’s offering hand.

“What are you _doing_.”

“Making dinner?”

Pat knows his hands are shaking, and his face looks weird, but he can’t help finding Brian’s gaze, because he’s _desperate_. Fuck.

“Brian. You can’t fucking—you can’t fucking _work me up_ like this and put a knife in my hand.”

“Why?”

Dear lord in heaven the kid is coming closer. Pat feels trapped—

back against the door, reaching for the handle—

and the kid is coming at him with the knife, but it’s not like that—

it’s handle first, all polite—

because _Brian’s_ not the monster—

“Because I’ll f-fucking _hurt_ you.”

“Nah,” Brian shrugs. He’s too fucking close. Pat’s hand is on the door handle but the kid is too close for him to open the door and just _flee_ into the night— “I bet you wouldn’t.”

Pat’s cheeks are wet. Oh, hell.

“Please, just let me go.”

“You can safeword,” Brian says carefully, from his spot two inches below Pat’s face, where his fast, panting, teary, pathetic breaths are ruffling the kid’s hair. “I’d rather you didn’t, but you can if you need to. Either way, you’re not hurting me, tonight. Okay?”

He sounds so fucking _confident_ —

like he knows exactly what’s going to happen, and he’s got it all planned out—

like he always does—

he’s always got it planned, and it always works out right—

so Pat presses his eyes closed—

and _sniffs_ , because he’s a fucking pathetic piece of shit who can’t even—

Brian opens his palm, carefully—

and presses the knife in, handle first—

and Pat almost pussies out, again, again, for the fucking second time this week—

almost pussies out on the most important things, like always, like always, like _always_ —

but today, Brian lends him some bravery, maybe—

and all he has to say is “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Smaller, please. Like, maybe a quarter-inch, if that.”   

Luckily, mushrooms are soft, and you can cut them when your hands are shaking.

Why does Brian keep _talking,_ though.

“You’re really scared of hurting me, Pat. I want to figure out why. I’m not ever scared of you.”

There’s a nonzero chance that Pat’ll cut himself, if he flinches now. His body cooperates, for once.

“Like, Simone is way scarier than you, and I’m not scared of her at _all_ , so I don’t get it.”

“Simone is different. I’m bigger than you.”

“When I’m tied down it doesn’t matter that much,” Brian shrugs. “She could definitely fuck me up. I could scream my safeword into the rafters and she could just keep going anyway.”

“She would never.”

“Yup.”

There’s a pause.

Brian puts a hand on his arm, when he’s done with the mushrooms. “Actually, can you cut his too? I forgot it.”

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Pat’s voice hitches as Brian dumps a head of garlic on the cutting board.

“That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I wanna know what happened at home, that upset you, and that was about me.”

Pat puts down the knife.

“Just three cloves, please.”

He picks up the bulb of garlic and shucks the papery skin with effort. It’s good, to have something to do with his fucking hands. Preferably something that doesn’t involve a deadly weapon, but hell. Beggars can’t be choosers. He pulls off three cloves, then a fourth. Then, he pulls the whole thing apart, just because it feels satisfying.

“You can mince it all, if you want. I’m just using three cloves’ worth, but it’ll be useful to have.”

Pat nods.

Brian waits, until he has the knife back in his hands.

“You have like, a real chef grip. I know you don’t cook. But you hold it right. By the blade. It’s good.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you tell them about us?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

Brian is quiet, for a second. “Why?”

Pat doesn’t know the answer to this question and even if he did he thinks he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“You should claw your other hand, so you don’t hurt your fingertips. Here, let me show you.”

Brian takes the knife, and makes his hand the way Pat should be making it.

“It’s tougher with garlic, honestly, so I should have made you do the onion. But you can do it. Here.”

Pat kinda sucks at it. It makes him nervous, how Brian’s fingers slide in easily to correct his hand shape, but he lets the anxiety be soothed by the touch. Eventually he gets it right. Brian watches him, corrects. He minces.

“I know you haven’t come out to them.”

He hesitates, but six cloves are minced, so that’s more than halfway, so might as well.

“They won’t approve, I figure.”

Seven, although that one’s rougher than the others.

“You don’t have to tell them.”

“You say that now.”

Brian thinks about this. Pat just minces.

“Someone else said that to you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And changed their mind.”

What he’s going to do when these cloves are exhausted, Pat really can’t guess. Maybe Brian will have some idea.

“Will it help if I tell you you can fuck me until I’m old and grey and not tell your folks and it’ll be _fine._ ”

“Like not telling people at work was fine?”

Brian hitches a breath. Pat feels a stab of victory, although it’s bittersweet. Brian’s in the right, here, whatever he feels. Pat just knows. He knows it’s not fair.

“That’s fair. Here, dump it in this jar. The extra’ll be in your fridge, for when you need it.”

Pat’s immediately wrong-footed by having nothing to do with his hands, but Brian knows this, it seems. He pulls the knife out of Pat’s hand, with a little smile, and wipes it off.

“See? No harm, no foul. Now start the dishes, please.”

Pat does that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The motions of dishes are unfortunately a more practiced habit of Pat’s hands, so there’s space to think.

_You should get out of here, Patrick. You should just leave. Or make him leave. You could do that. You could yell, he’d cry, then he’d let you leave. Or you could just push past him. He might try to stop you, but you’d win. You could probably shove him right out the door if you really tried. What’s the worst thing that happens? He takes a swing at you? You’d win that one, too. Kid’s already used to explaining your bruises. He’d pass a new one off with no trouble at all. Oh, he was just angry, I shouldn’t have pushed. I knew he was angry. You don’t know him how I know him. He’s a good guy, deep down._

Pat chokes. Talking is fucking _awful_ , but it’s preferable to thinking. “Did Simone put you up to this?”

“Kinda the opposite,” Brian says, and wraps his arms around Pat’s waist. “I did ask her advice.”

It’s good, the arms. “Will you…can you…”

Brian wraps a hand around his throat, slowly. There’s quite a lot of pressure, actually. It _hurts_. The kid’s fingers are strong. “What do you need, Pat?”

“Don’t—” his voice sounds strange, from the pressure. “—let go.”

The kid doesn’t, just keeps pressing, and it hurts and hurts. Things ease up, a bit.

“I’m not letting go,” Brian says, shifting. His other hand slides up the back of Pat’s arm, finds a space on the inside just near Pat’s armpit, where the skin is soft, and pinches.

Pat takes in a breath.

The hand leaves his throat, but the pinch intensifies. It’s sharp. Just the littlest line of skin, caught between a fingertip and a knuckle. “You’re gonna take your shirt off, Patrick, and kneel on the ground, please. I’m going to put this in the oven and then come cuff your hands. You can decide, in front or behind.”

Pat nods, once.

Brian lets him go with a little shove.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat picks behind.

He could have knelt on the rug, but it’s better on the floor. Makes his knees twinge a little, even through his jeans. Plus, he’s next to the couch, and next to the bed, whichever way this thing goes. Pat keeps his head down and tries to guess.

They don’t really do handcuffs very often—Brian likes to struggle, and Pat likes his boyfriend’s wrists to not bleed—but he has them, because there’s some scenes where nothing else will do. That institutional feel.

“Good.” Brian touches his shoulder suddenly—again, just _appearing_ , so close—but if Pat flinches, he doesn’t notice—just tugs his wrists, turns them, clicks the cuffs on, checks they’re tight.

Pat watches the floor as Brian circles around, crouches in front of him. He’s agile, the kid. Balances on the balls of his feet, knees point out. Elbow rests on his knee, like he’s comfortable like that, like it isn’t even a strain. His other hand reaches out and pulls up Pat’s head by the hair.

“I’m not going to be quite like Simone.”

This is true. Brian’s voice is soft, and his hand is gentle. There’s something alike between them, though. Maybe just. Confidence that they can handle his bullshit. Pat’ll have to trust it. He’s got no choice, now.

Brian’s other hand is pulling off Pat’s glasses. He folds them, one-handed, and hangs them on the collar of his own shirt. It’s oddly intimate, to see them there. He lets his gaze drop back down as Brian releases his head.

“I’m more of a carrot than a stick person. You understand?”

Pat doesn’t say anything.

Brian moves—

“Fuck!” Pat recoils a bit, surprised. He didn’t even know the kid _had_ a backhand, let alone—

“You understand?”

“Yeah _._ ”

 _Jesus_ , the second time he manages not to curse—those _knuckles_ , though—

“That’s yes, sir. You understand?”

Something twinges in his gut. Bad, and good. He does. Understand, that is. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now look at me, Patrick.”

Pat does, because he’s curious. The kid doesn’t look like Simone. He’s breathing fast, and flushed. He’s got no wicked smile, real or manufactured. But he doesn’t look afraid. There’s that.

“You might not like how I do this,” Brian says, softly.

“I can take it. Sir.” Pat says. Stubborn. Simone would call him stubborn.

Brian takes hold of his chin, firm, strokes with his thumb.

“We’ll see. Remember your safeword. In case you need to pussy out.”

It fucking hurts, that, but it also unlocks something in Patrick. That he’s not gonna scare the kid, tonight.

“Take my shirt off, Patrick.”

Pat looks up—he can _try_ to do that with his teeth, but he doesn’t know if he’s talented enough, frankly—

Brian gives him a _look_ , chiding. “Yes, it’ll be harder with your hands behind you. But you picked that.” He presses Pat’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn around. Ah. Makes more sense. Pat shuffles, on his knees, until he’s facing away from Brian, and his fingers can grasp backwards and find the buttons.

It’s a little clumsy, but he makes it happen. Brian doesn’t scold him, but he doesn’t praise either.

“What were you thinking about, when you were sitting on the couch?”

Pat closes his eyes. “A lot of things.” Brian digs a thumb into his shoulder, right where it meets the neck. “Sir.”

“Not good enough. Even if it’s true.”

A breath huffs out of him, as the pressure is sustained.

“You can pick one to tell me about, or I can guess.”

Pat panics, slightly. Brian will keep asking about…what he’s been asking about…what Pat said to his parents…what he wanted to say, and didn’t…what he’s going to do about it…his brain recoils from the anxiety, the uncertain future, not knowing how that’s going to play out, throws itself back, finds the oldest thing even if maybe it’s the worst, because at least it’s old, at least he knows how much that one is gonna hurt.

“Gus. I was thinking about Gus.”

Brian’s pressure is gone, instantly, and he’s petting Pat’s hair.

“Thank you, Patrick.”

The stroking continues, like he’s an obedient pet. He is, he supposes.

“Undo my belt, Pat.”

His fingers struggle with this—the height is wrong, with how Brian is crouching—he has to grope around a bit and angle his body. But he gets it.

“Pull it all the way out—”

Easy enough—

“—no, the belt, I mean. Take the belt off my pants. I want you to hold it for a sec.”

Okay, fine. Pat can do that. He pulls, slides it out.

“Dyou still talk to Gus?”

“No, sir.”

“When’s the last time?”

The belt comes loose. It’s light, in his hand. Slimmer than his dad’s were. Brian’s slim.

“When we were fifteen.”

Brian presses his hands onto Pat’s shoulders, pushes himself out of his crouch. He kisses Pat on the head. It makes him recoil, the tenderness. Brian notices, but doesn’t back away from it. He leans over to drag a hand up Pat’s neck, force his head up by the chin. Pat can see his face now, but it’s upside down. He thinks Brian will probably try to kiss him. It’s going to be awkward, at this angle, but he could do it. Maybe even make it good.

“Who stopped it?”

An easy one. “Me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a coward.”

Brian’s hand twists his hair—painful, but only just. “None of that,” he chides. “Only I get to call you names, tonight. Try again. Why did you stop it?”

It’s—it’s too complicated—Pat can’t decide—there’s so many causes—so many reasons—he didn’t even _have_ a reason, at the time—or maybe he had too many—how can he—

“Shh,” Brian touches the center of his forehead. “That was a bad question, actually. No one knows why they do anything when they’re fifteen. Let’s go back. Simpler. You were friends. I remember. You wrestled with him. You kissed. Were you in wrestling yet, when you were fifteen?”

“Not yet,” Pat says. He feels the leather in his hands again. Strange. He’d forgotten he was holding it. That’s not very common, actually. Pat usually keeps close track of things like that. Things that he might need to duck.

Brian’s kissing him, then, and it is awkward upside down, so he focuses. It’s not elegant, but Pat does all right. It’s soft, and warm, and Brian’s hands stroke his hair.

“How are your knees,” Brian asks, when he pulls away.

“Fine, sir.”

“Good. I want you to stay here for a sec. I’m going to get a few things. You’re doing very well.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat’s hands twist the leather while he waits. He thinks about what Brian’s gonna do with it. Hit him, most likely. Or just tie him. Or possibly choke him. God, he hopes it’s that. He fingers the buckle.

It’s probably not that. Pat hasn’t really told Brian that choking him is okay. Then again. He also told Brian not to call him a pussy, and he’d done that already. So maybe one can hold out hope. Kid’s hard to predict.

Brian’s back, Pat realizes. Standing. Nearby. Just watching Pat.

“Your dad hit you, didn’t he.”

Pat blinks. “Um. When I was fifteen? Or in general.”

“Let’s hear both.”

“You don’t really whip fifteen-year-olds. They’re too big. They don’t stay still.”

“What’s the optimal age, for whipping? If I wanted you to stay still.”

Pat sighs. “It’s just parenting, to some people. It wasn’t terrible.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

Pat doesn’t know what to say to that, so he’s quiet.

“I’d imagine if you’re too young, you can’t stay still either.”

“You learn quick.”

Brian drags a hand through Pat’s hair, scratches the scalp with his nails. It’s a fucking relief, to be touched, and Pat sighs. He doesn’t know where these questions are going, if they’re going to go back to the other ones, what’s coming next.

“Did he hit your mom?”

“ _No_ , no. Nothing like that. He wasn’t—it was just discipline. He hit me when I was bad. That’s all.”

“Tell me about a time you were bad. The earliest one you can remember, please.”

“Uh.” Shit, he has to—it’s hard, to cast your memory back, like that—he leaves behind when he was fifteen, for the moment—goes back to when he was littler, in Texas—Brian knows about the sleeping—does he have anything from before the sleeping?—maybe—something _funny_ would be nice—he doesn’t really have enough details for a good story, though—just sense memories, of school and summer and being wild— “Sorry. Trying to remember.”

“Take your time.”  

School is a good touchstone. First grade, he could pull up a memory, maybe. Does he have anything from kindergarten. Almost certainly. He was a real shit in kindergarten. He loved it. His teacher couldn’t keep a handle on the class, and they were always racing around. He got a lot of whippings he deserved. For backtalk, for breaking things, for playing rough with girls. For driving his teacher crazy. The actual first one is stupid, though. Maybe—

“Stop thinking about whether to lie to me.”

“Sorry. Sir. I got it, I got it. It’s just—not much. I did way worse shit. But my teacher freaked out. And it was like, the second week, so she didn’t know how much of a little shit I was gonna be.”

Brian tugs his hair, lightly. “Again, with the name-calling. And begin at the beginning. You’re losing me. What grade were you in.”

“Kindergarten.”

He hears Brian control that breath, which he appreciates. Brian was probably a very cherubic little five-year-old. Not a wiry sprawling maniac who drove his parents to desperation. Brian probably brought home good report cards and cried whenever he got a stern talking-to. Some kids need a little more muscle.

“It was the first couple weeks. My school had a little playground, for the kindergarten only, but it wasn’t fenced in. There was a big grassy field—huge, to me, it felt like a mile, the soccer fields and all that—and then the big kids’ playground, for the Catholic school. I wandered away at recess. They looked like they had cooler stuff to play with, over there. I didn’t ask anybody. I just dipped. And they _did_ have cooler stuff. It was fucking sick. Plus they all had recesses by grade, like in a row, so I played with all these big kids for like _ages_. Over an hour, for sure. And uh, I didn’t hear the teacher call us in from recess? Cause I was so far. And yknow. I probably knew I wasn’t supposed to be out so long, but no one stopped me, so.” He sighs. “My teacher panicked. She thought I got kidnapped or something. Not _great_ problem-solving—check the sick awesome playground equipment first, lady—but yeah. Eventually they found me. I doubt I even looked sorry.”

“Your kid stories are always so cute,” Brian is petting, again. Pat closes his eyes. He supposes so. It’s a good memory, this. It was worth it. “She told you off, for that?”

“Not really. She wasn’t even mad, poor woman. I think she was just glad I wasn’t dead. She thought she’d lose her job. I think she might have been a first-year teacher. She apologized to my parents _so much_. Cried, even.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Pat smiles, faintly. “She was really sweet. Ooh, _lord,_ my dad took it out of my hide. I deserved it.” 

“Hmmm.” Brian continues to pet. “Did you stay still?”

“Oh, _hell_ no. That was the first time I ever got hit with a strap. It fucking _hurt_. I screamed and kicked like a maniac. I think I bit him.”

Brian snorts, and Pat feels glad. It’s a _funny_ memory, that one. He doesn’t want Brian to be horrified of it, whatever his views on corporal punishment. It ends funny, too.

“My mom got pissed at him, for strapping me and making me cry. She thought I wasn’t big enough for that. Before that I just got spankings. She whacked me with her hairbrush, yknow, that kind of thing. They had a fight about it. I think my dad regretted it. She almost brought him to tears. It was tense, for about a week.”

“Did she win, on that one?”

Pat grins. “No. Because the next week I got in trouble for leading three other kids to the promised land.”

Brian laughs. “Incorrigible.”

“My dad laughed too. He picked me up, and the teacher told him what I’d done, and he just crouched down and smiled at me. _I see how it is, little man. Your mom doesn’t know. You’re a chip off the old block._ I don’t think I knew what that meant, really. I knew what was coming though. Still fuckin worth it.”

Brian pulls Pat up, by the arms. It’s hard, because his knees hurt. Brian waits, steadies him, as he stands then pulls him in for a kiss. Brian is kissing harder than usual, more aggressively. It’s nice. Pat kisses back, pressing his tongue against, not too hard, just enough to offer some resistance.

The tongue pulls away.

“I’m gonna take your pants off, Patrick. So you’re more comfortable. Is that all right?”

“Yes, sir.” Brian’s hands are doing it, already, unbuckling jeans.

“And then let’s move to the bed, I think.”

“ _Please_ —can I—can I stay on the floor? Sir?”

Brian kisses him again, gentler.

“Yes, Patrick. Thank you for asking. That was very good. Sit on the couch, then. So I can get your shoes off.”

He sits, lets Brian unlace, pull off his boots, his socks. He watches Brian’s face. It doesn’t look horrified. He’s not crying. Just deliberate. Calm. The jeans take a little pulling.

Pat expects the boxers to come off too, but Brian doesn’t move to. He pulls Pat off the couch, onto the floor. Pat sits cross-legged in front of it. His knees are aching. He presses his hands into the sofa, grabs the bottom edge. Brian moves, to sit behind him, climbing over with typical gawky agility. Knees on either side of Pat’s shoulders. Pat feels small. Appropriately bare.

“I’m going to touch you a bit. You’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

“Yes, sir,” Pat says, with no intention of doing so.

Brian’s hands are clever, as always.

“Where’d you learn how to give massages?”

The hands pause their pressing to stroke Pat’s skin. “Dance shows. We used to sit around for hours in the green room, killing time, making massage circles. The older kids taught us. I also learned blackjack, like way before I should’ve.”

Pat smiles at that. He can imagine little Brian, going crazy with boredom, surrounded by a crew of older girls, teaching each other how to do makeup and gossiping about boys and laughing when Brian was silly.

The thumbs are rubbing quite firmly, down his spine.

“I almost forgot about dinner,” Brian says, suddenly. “I should take that out.”

Pat doesn’t know why he tenses. Maybe just because he was enjoying this.

“We can eat now, but I’ll have to feed you. Or we can just eat later. Your choice.”

Pat’s not hungry, at the moment. “Later is fine.”

“Good,” Brian pets. “Let me go turn off the oven. You stay here.”

While Brian does that, Pat takes a moment. Tries to check in on his body. Chest fine. Arms—fine, no tingles. Legs fine. Sore. Head—better than expected. Jaw isn’t tight, anyway. Neck is tense, but Brian’s working on that. He’s sure it’ll get sorted. Brian’s very talented.

The kid’s back, then, re-positioning himself in the same spot.

“There we are. Now, stay still. You’ve got some knots up here, and it’s not gonna feel nice. I’m really gonna have to hammer them.”

Pat snorts. It’s nice to be able to pick up on Brian’s symbolism, for once. Him and his motifs.

“Fire away, then.”

The knuckles drive in, first, and the questions come second.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes Brian a while of dancing around, trying this and that question, to get to the meat of it. Pat’s not giving him much. One-word answers, if that. The kid’s triangulating, jumping around his past, his present, his future. Some of them are toughies. _Does that hurt?_ Yup. _Do you see us together in five years?_ Yes. _Was your last boyfriend long-term?_ Not sure what you mean. _Would you ever hit your kid?_ No. Not if I could help it. _What does that mean?_ I don’t know. _Were you in love with Gus?_ I don’t know. _Do you like my hair better long or short?_ Both. _Did Aggie break up with you?_ It was mutual. _Did you hate moving?_ It was fine. _Do you hate your dad?_ No, no. _Did you have gay friends in high school?_ No. _Did Simone talk you into asking me out?_ Yup. _How long did you want to?_ I don’t know. Ages. _What d’you think your mom would think of me?_ In what context. _As your friend._ That you’re good for me. Happy. Smart. _As your boyfriend?_ Don’t know. Might be conflicted. Probably she’d be sad about grandchidren. _Do you want kids?_ Not sure. _Were you scared of your dad when you were little?_ Sure. _Did you ever sleep with Gus?_ No. Wait, do you mean… _Have sex with._ No. _Were you a picky eater?_ Not particularly. _Do you consider yourself bi?_ Yup. _Did you have a type?_ I don’t know. _Do your parents follow you on instagram?_ No, they’d never be able to figure that out.

Pat begins to feel exhaustedly relaxed. The relentlessness of it helps. The way that Brian just asks and asks, and doesn’t really stick on anything, even if Pat’s answer is strange. The way he accepts _I don’t know._ The way he asks silly little vain questions in there.

“Your arms must be tired,” Brian says, eventually.

“Your fingers, too.”

“They can handle a lot.”

“Ditto.”

“I’m still curious about why you broke it off with Gus.”

Pat feels oddly like Brian should already know, like he should be able to piece it together from the things he’s said already. But that’s an illusion, of course. He hasn’t really said anything useful. As usual. Can’t fucking—

“Hey, hey. Stop that.”

“Sorry.”

“I want it out of you. Maybe it’s just a curiosity thing. Will you let me get it?”

“Sure,” Pat says, before he can even think.

“I don’t think I can guess it out of you.”

“Probably not.”

“Do you need me to hit you?”

Pat thinks about this. He’s surprised to find the answer is no. “A stress position would probably do it.”

“Good. Very good.” Brian strokes his hair. “I can do that. Easy. I’ll take care of that. Stand up.”

It’s good, to stretch his legs. His shoulders feel sore and good.

Brian taps his shoulder, thinks. Pat wonders what he’ll pick. Kneeling is easy. Then Brian could use his mouth, if he wanted. But maybe he has no interest in that. It’s a little weird, Pat understands. It never bothers him, when Simone does it, but it’s probably not for everyone, childhood revelations and also sex.

He’s moving, then, pushed by Brian, over to the bathroom door. Brian takes the belt out of his hands, opens the door. Looks at it, for a sec. Threads the leather through the crack in the door, over the top hinge. He tugs, glances at Pat. “Hands, please.”

Pat turns around, lets Brian force his hands up behind him. He has to bend over quite a bit, to let Brian have enough slack to buckle it around the center of the cuffs. The pull against his wrists is significant. He can’t really bend his elbows to relieve the pressure, not unless he hikes up on his toes, and then only a little.

“Grab onto it with your fingers so it won’t cut in,” Brian directs. “And tell me when the tingles start. You won’t be able to hold this for long.”

“Got it. Sir.”

“Good boy. I’m just gonna leave you there for a minute.”

“You should eat,” Pat says, a little amused. “You’ve gotta be hungry.”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I will. You want any?”

“No, sir.” He watches as Brian pulls out his casserole dish, dips himself out some stew into a bowl. He stands in the kitchen, eating it, watching Pat thoughtfully. He doesn’t eat much. But he does portion out the rest into tupperwares, and put the pan in the sink to soak. It takes a minute.

By the time everything’s in the fridge, Pat’s shoulders are protesting. He adjusts, to torture his toes for a while instead. Simone does a lot of stuff like this. Pick your poison. Pain here, pain there. It doesn’t stop hurting, but it’s nice to be able to switch how it hurts, when he wants.

“Tell me about Gus, Patrick.”

Brian’s sitting, in a chair. He’s straddling the back of it. His hands are resting on the top. A real _friendly coach just wants to tell you how it is, kid_ look. It makes Pat smile a little.

Brian also looks a little amused. There’s a glint of something. “You won’t be so happy in a few minutes.”

“That’s true.”

“Shall I wait until you look miserable?”

“Maybe.”

“All right, then. I’ll make cookies.”

Pat snorts. “You’re a strange dom.”

“I just want cookies. You don’t have any sweets in the house. But you have the stuff for snickerdoodles.”

“Killing with kindness,” Pat muses.

“You won’t tease me when I’m done. They’ll be delicious.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a weird thing, this kind of position. It doesn’t hurt that much, not exactly. Not like hitting, or choking, or things like that. It’s mostly not even the cuffs cutting into his wrists. It’s not that you’re being hurt. It’s just how hard your muscles have to work, to prevent yourself from being hurt. And for how long.

Pat switches, again, back to his toes. He’s never been great at standing on his toes for long periods. Brian is. Brian also stands on one leg a lot, when he’s fidgety at work. Great balance, that kid. Pat’s balance is fine, that’s not going to be the problem. It’ll be the burn in his calves, or that cramping in his arches eventually, that gets him. That’ll be the thing that makes him beg. Eventually.

Brian brandishes a wooden spoon. Pat flinches, before he realizes he’s just being offered it to lick. He does.

“Tastes good,” he says, only a little breathy.

“Dessert before your dinner. I should probably punish you for that.” Brian sucks it, thoughtfully. “Your parents hit you with one of these?”

“Nah. Or I don’t think so.”

“But a hairbrush, when you were small. On your bare ass?”

“You’re kinda obsessed with the hitting, huh.”

Brian continues to suck the spoon, staring at him. “Kinda. It’s interesting.”

“Yeah, bare ass. Like a spanking. Just a little feistier. I’ll try it on you sometime. You’ll probably like it.”

“I probably will,” Brian tilts his head, curious. Like always. “Does it remind you of it, when you hit me?”

Pat’s eyes slide off. “I try not to draw parallels. It’s different.”

“Because I can stop you.”

“Among other things.”

Pat switches again, leans over, feels the pull on his shoulders. He watches the spoon. Brian’s finished licking it off, gesticulates with it. Pat wonders when he’s gonna get smacked, and where. Probably on the legs.

“Did it bother you, the first time I asked you to hit me with a belt? I think I pushed that. I didn’t know it had baggage, for you. I would have picked something else, to start.”

Pat would shrug, if his shoulders were available for the motion. “It’s not baggage. It didn’t bother me. It’s not like I have a lot of memories of being on the other side.” He narrows his eyes, lets his tone get a little edge. “Also you squirm and cry a lot. So that’s different. I haven’t made that much of a fuss since I was seven.”  

“Ouch,” Brian pouts. “Mean.”

“I’m guessing your parents didn’t hit you.” Pat allows himself an asshole grin. His calves fucking _hurt_ , and he’s ready for some other sensations, so he might as well. Bust out your spoon, baby boy. Let’s do this thing. “What’d they do, put you in time out? Take away your nail polish?”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “Getting a little saucy, I see. You must be feeling it.”

“Not yet.” Pat lies.

“Time out, sure. Not very often. I was a good kid.” His tone is even. Not rising to the bait.

“Figures.” Pat switches again, leans over, feels the pull on his shoulders. It’s the same ache as before. Sort of a twisting pain, insistent, dull. It’ll be sharp soon enough, though. Fuck.

Brian is watching him, reading his expressions as best he can. Pat tries to give him nothing. He’s fairly sure a wince or two has leaked out, though. “So naughty Patrick got hit with belts. Hands. Hairbrushes. No spoons. What other implements?”

“Looking for—mmph— _inspiration_?”

Brian ignores the teasing, but not the grunt. “Getting tired?”

“No.”

“Then answer the question.”

“I haven’t got a lot for you. Good luck cutting a switch in New York.”

“Hmm. Very old-fashioned. Didn’t know anyone still did that.”

“My dad’s older. And Texas is—different.”

“Did you have to cut it yourself? Like in books?” Brian is looking at Pat as if he is a very curious specimen, some kind of rare creature he gets to study.

“Nah. Sorry to disappoint. Honestly I think I only got whipped with a switch once or twice. When I was being a little asshole and we were already outside. In the yard. At the park. Trees are convenient.”

“You had to drop your pants in public?”

“No, no,” Pat shrugs. “That was just over pants. Bare legs. Fast and stung a bit. That’s all.”

“Huh. I envisioned it more ritualistic. More buildup.” Brian pauses, then decides to add. “Less angry.”

Pat shrugs. “Could go either way. Honestly, I preferred when he was angry. Sloppier, but shorter. There’s nothing quite like being sent up to pick out a belt.”

“Hmm.” Brian says, pondering. It’s interesting, communicating across the chasm. In some ways, talking about this is easier than sex. Less humiliating. Explaining what your parents did to you is easy. Explaining what you’ve done—what you _want_ to do—now that’s the hard shit— _._

“Any other tools?”

“Gus lived in fear of _la chancla_ ,” Pat offers. “His mom’s sandal. She would chase us with it.”

“Your parents let someone _else_ hit you?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. Kind of a joke. We were always getting into trouble. We’d steal stuff from the kitchen, or make a mess. She’d chase us out of the house. It was funny. We’d get each other in trouble on purpose.”

“Just his mom? Not his dad?”

“Single mom. Three boys.”

Brian smiles. “Ah. Musta been a tough lady.”

“I loved her,” Pat hears himself say, a little strained. “She made me feel like I was her son. She had enough to deal with. Enough mouths to feed. But I was always over there. I’d sit with them at Christmas mass.”

“Was she the reason you stopped talking to Gus?”

“Kinda.”

Pat switches again. Straightens up a bit. Again, on his toes. The ache.

“Uncomfortable?”

“Very.”

“Enough?”

“Apparently not.”

“I’ll be back in a minute, then.” Brian smiles and goes back to his cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cookies are in the oven, and Brian’s back where he was before, straddling the chair, watching.

Pat knows this is the beginning of the end, for his self-control. He’s losing the fight to master his breath. He’s focusing on his feet—he just pulled up on his toes, but he’s going to have to let up soon or risk a foot cramp. Shit. He knew it’d be the legs, that were the problem.

“You said you wouldn’t hit your kids.”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Do you think your dad was wrong, to hit you?”

“Uh,” Pat shifts a bit. “Sometimes. Sometimes I deserved it. Sometimes he was just frustrated. Probably could have stood to take a parenting class. I was a tough kid. He was just trying to—to make sure I turned out all right.”

“You did, so there’s that,” Brian says softly.

“Yeah. He did fine. He was— _mmph_ —dealing with his own shit. Trying to be a good dad. His own dad was a fucking nightmare. Broke my grandma’s back and drank himself to death. My childhood was nothing.”

“ _This be the verse_ ,” Brian murmurs.

“Huh?”

“Larkin. I’ll give you some poetry recs, sometime. Why wouldn’t you hit your kids, then?”

“It’s out of vogue,” Pat switches, again, and immediately feels the pain in his shoulders. It makes his breath come short. “If you lose your temper, you can really fuck up. And also— _mmph_ —”

“Also?”

“It _works_ —” Pat grunts. “You teach your lessons. They remember. But then—you get to be thirty—and all your clearest childhood memories—involve getting hit. That I could do without.” He sighs. “Plus you end up with some really kinky bedroom shit, I guess.”

“Dunno if you could have avoided that,” Brian says sagely. “No one hit me. And here I am.”

“No one needed to hit you,” Pat hears himself say. “You’re perfect.” And he means it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You ready to talk?”

“I better be—not going to—last—”

“All right, then let’s hear it. I have a guess, now, if you’d like it.”

“Please.”

“I think someone caught you kissing. And you got in trouble.”

“—bingo.”

“Your parents found out?”

“Yup.”

“And Gus’s mom?”

“Yup.”

“I’d imagine they were all pretty pissed.”

“Oh—you have no idea—”

“You said fifteen was too old to whip. Did your dad try?”

“Yup—I—took a swing at him—”

“Did you hurt him?”

“No—I was—just flailing—wish I had—my mom might have—taken it better—”

“Hmm?”

“He broke my nose—it’s worse because—not a bruise on him—”

Pat switches, sighing in familiar pain. It burns more, but he can probably talk better, on his toes.

“Shit, Patrick. He broke your nose?”

“Yeah.” Pat grunts.

“Did you cry?”

“No I swung again—he did too. Knocked me clean the fuck out. Bad luck.”

“Jesus.”

“It was stupid—to try and fight him. I was a weakling.”

“Why’d you try it then?”

Pat lets out a whimper as he switches again. The shoulders are bad. Really bad. It feels like they’re ripping out of their sockets. “Please—”

“No. You can take this. Why’d you punch him?”

“He was—saying some shit—Jesus, Brian, _please_.”

“No. You push through it, or safeword. What was he saying?”

“Calling—me a faggot—telling me—I could never— _God_ ”

“Never _what,_ Patrick”

 “See—Gus again—said—some racist shit—”

“And so you punched him and he knocked you down. What happened next.”

“Hospital.” Pat grits his teeth as he switches back to toes. He’s shaking, but it’s a bit steadier, at least. “Mom left him. Took me and. Left.”

“I didn’t know your parents were divorced.”

“They’re not. Only for a month or two. I stayed at my grandma’s. With my mom. _God_ Brian, please—”

“Begging won’t help. You safeword if your hands are tingling, or if you can’t take it.”

“I—don’t—safeword—” Not from pain. Never.

“I know. So you better talk faster.” Brian’s worked up now, his face is flushed, and he’s standing. He’d be eye-to-eye with Pat, if Pat could get his head up, but he can’t, anymore.

“What—else do you need— _please_ —”

“Why did you break it off with Gus? Did your dad make you?”

“No.”

“Not _good_ enough, Patrick. Why did you, then?”

“I don’t _know_.”

“What happened when your parents were separated?”

“They were—not—they didn’t talk—”

“How did you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like it was your fault?”

“It was”

“Why’d they get back together?”

“My dad—apologized—to me. She let me see him, then—we talked—it was good”

“You weren’t mad at him?”

“It was—the best thing that ever—happened to our relationship. We talked.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Explain.”

Pat switches, to his shoulders again, lets his head hang down and moans in uncontrollable pain.

“ _God_. We started talking. About everything. He apologized—explained—father—the Catholic church—how much it meant to him—sin—I had a lot of questions—he finally fucking _talked_ to me—his advice on girls was—old-fashioned—but he was glad when I—I took a girl home—joined wrestling— _please_ —my parents got over it—my mom knew he had a temper—and I was a little shit—I did shit—just to piss them off—just to rebel—”

Brian huffs out a breath. “Okay. And you broke up with Gus?”

“Didn’t fucking— _break up—_ I wasn’t— _fuck_ —”

“Fine. What’d you do?”

“He would try to—talk to me—in school—I ignored him—because I’m a fucking—psychopath—I was—a coward—his mom was—furious too—made his life hell—but he was brave—he could fucking take it—he would risk it—for me—I was a coward—

“You really give it to yourself from both sides, don’t you?”

“I—I’ll never fucking forget—Gus’s mother—screaming at mine—about how I was the devil—how dare she let her—child go running wild and—bother their family—we were so much richer—didn’t I have better things to do—than fuck with her son—didn’t I have shame—”

“Jesus, Pat.”

“My mother cried—hung up and—turned to me and just said—how could you do this Patrick”

“All this for a fucking kiss.”

“I told him to stay—the fuck away from me—that none of it meant anything—that I was going to hell—and I hoped he did too—he cried—tried to fight me—”

“Hurt you?”

“I told you—” Pat sobs “—I was bigger.”

“You hurt him.”

“ _Please_ , let me go,” Pat cries. “His mom called—to threaten my mom—with a lawsuit—my parents were back together—then—my dad picked up—he told her—she could stick her— _god—_ I can’t say, it, Brian, I can’t—“

“Okay.”

“He said—that his son—wasn’t a faggot—and he was so _proud_ of me—for proving it—”

“This is enough.” Pat can barely hear Brian over his tears. It fucking _hurts_. His knees are buckling. And everything else hurts, too.

Brian’s hands feel distant as he unbuckles.

Pat lets himself collapse—it would be to the ground, if Brian didn’t catch him along the way. He’s snotty and sore, and he can’t feel his hands. Fuck. He should have—

The cuffs are off, now, and Pat curls in on himself.

Brian holds him for a long time, until the crying stops.

 

 

 

 

 

“You didn't do anything wrong. What could you have done,” Brian whispers into Pat’s hair, when he’s clawing through.

“Anything else. _Anything_ else than what I did.”

“You didn’t do this. What could you have done? “

“Never touched him.”

“Fuck that.You didn’t know what would happen.

“Apologized to Frances. She deserved it. I—“

“Bullshit. You were in love with her son. That’s not a sin.”

“Even after it all—if I’d just held on to my temper—”

“Oh, Patrick. I’m so—”

“Please—please just. Don’t do that. Please. don’t be sorry.” Pat can’t struggle, not really, not on the floor like this and ringing with the echoes of now-distant pain. “Please god, don’t be sorry. You can’t—you can’t understand. It’s not simple.”

“Shh,” Brian collects his head into his lap, as if he’s a precious thing, as if he deserves comforting.

“How does it feel?”

“Aches,” Pat admits, a solitary adjective. “It’s fine, though.”

“Good,” Brian soothes, fingers pinching his shoulders like he’s contemplating another massage. “I hope I didn’t do too badly. I was curious. Maybe I should have pushed on what happened over Christmas.”

“Nothing happened over Christmas, Bri,” Pat says softly, to the fingers pushing into him, looking for tender spots. “I just wanted to tell them about you, and I didn’t, that’s all.”

“Because they’d be angry?”

“Maybe.” Pat sighs. “It’s not like they’re gonna hit me anymore, Brian. My dad’s nearly seventy. I’m a grown-ass man. What the fuck do I have to be afraid of.”

“I think _I’m_ afraid of telling them, honestly,” Brian breathes. He doesn’t sound afraid, though, or angry, or sad, or anything that Patrick can recognize. At least only one of them is a blubbering mess. He wouldn’t have thought Brian could handle this. All this. “But I still want to meet them someday.”

“I’ll tell them,” Pat hears himself swear, raggedly, and he _will_ , he _will_ , he’ll fucking man up—

“No, I think I’d rather surprise them,” Brian says, suddenly.

“That’s not—”

“They _must_ be good people. They made you.”

“I don’t—”

“Listen. They did some fucked up things to you. Some horrible things. But I’m sure they were also wonderful and loving and funny and smart. I know that people are complicated, Pat. No one’s the worst thing we’ve ever done. They did something wrong, to you and Gus. They deserve a chance to make it right.”

Pat huffs out a breath and closes his eyes. It _is_ a different era, now. It’s been decades. His parents are different. This will probably upset them less than him moving to Manhattan did, in all honesty. Or his choice of major. At this point, they might not even be disappointed. They might just be happy he’s found someone.

“Let’s not think about that now. Or for ages. Can we just—can we get on the bed and I’ll kiss you for a while? I just want to kiss you.”

“Please,” Pat hitches. “Thank you.”

"And then don't forget the cookies." 

They are, as promised, delicious. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- corporal punishment & child abuse,  
> \- predicament bondage & bondage,  
> \- emotional and physical pain,  
> \- homophobic slurs & allusions to racism in a NON roleplay context,  
> \- mentions of (age-appropriate) child sexuality, and parents Not Dealing With It Well. 
> 
>  
> 
> someone made the beautifully gorgeous request for seeing pat-working-out-trauma, but not with simone's LET'S BEAT IT OUT OF HIM strategy, and my heart said THANK YOU LORDY FOR GIVING ME AN EXCUSE. the first draft of this was even more scattered, as it stands it's still less sensical than slaughterhouse five. hopefully yall dont mind this little nonsexy h/c bomb in the middle of the sex fic. hopefully you can figure out the plot from this terrible stream of consciousness. <3 either way, fluff will proceed


	28. - knee -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian wants to give pat a treat. 
> 
>  
> 
> _i’m the bad type / make your mama sad type / make your girlfriend mad type / might seduce your dad type_

“Aren’t you gonna punish him for mouthing off to you like that?” Simone yawns. “And can I watch?”

Pat colors. Brian’s already asleep between them, cozy and satisfied, and Pat hadn’t been going to, no.

Honestly looking up mid-sex and saying shit like that— _c’mon Pat don’t be dainty Simone’s a_ _girl_ _and she gives it to me harder_ —is just kind of par for the course, Brian-wise. It’s his way of saying—

— _I know I said I was a little sore but I changed my mind_

—and also _even if it makes me more sore, I want it now_

—and also _so you won’t feel guilty I’ll make sure I really deserve it_

—and also _I know how to push your buttons so right don’t I._

Pat coughs. “Uh. Wasn’t planning on it. He gets worked up.”

“You should. I’ve been watching him. I think he’s fishing for it.”

“He’s _always_ fishing for it, Simone, that’s what he _does_.”

“Then you’re not punishing him right.”

Pat is downright _embarrassed_ now, and frowns. “We have a different dynamic, Simone.”

 

> Simone makes a face. “You do. Shit. Sorry.”
> 
> “It’s all right. What’re you driving at, anyway?”
> 
> “Y’all are very indirect. I don’t think I can pull off what he asked.”
> 
> “Hmm?” She’s examining him, and examining Brian—checking if he’s really asleep. Pat confirms. “He’s definitely sleeping. When his mouth’s open like that it’s not faking.”
> 
> “All right. He wanted me to see if I could goad you into something for him.” Simone admits, with a sheepish grin. “I’m not so great at the misdirection, though. So maybe I’ll just tell you and then you can invent a story about how clever I was…?”
> 
> Pat wants to laugh, but he doesn’t want to wake Brian, so he just smiles. How do people ever get relationships to work, one-on-one. “What’s he want?”
> 
> “He wasn’t very specific. He has this vision for a scene where you’re a bit more selfish.”
> 
> “Where he doesn’t come, you mean?”
> 
> “I don’t think that’s what he means,” she lifts an eyebrow. “I think he just wants you to be—well, less worried about him. About making him happy. Keeping him safe. He wants you to be an asshole and take whatever you want. Punish him if he doesn’t get it perfect. I think he’s trying to treat you.”
> 
> This tracks. Brian knows better than to tread lightly around Pat, after last week. At the least sign of Brian being _extra nice_ , Pat feels he’s being _handled._ This makes his shoulders tense up and he scowls and stews and becomes kind of a jerk—even if he _is_ still raw with oversharing and faded muscle aches—he doesn’t know whether to be mad at himself for being delicate or mad at himself for thinking it’s bad to feel delicate.
> 
> Figures that Brian has a scene idea to fix it. Make treading lightly part of the _scene._
> 
> “All right. I think I get the gist. Any specifics he mentioned?”
> 
> “He wants to take the day off on Monday. He thinks you should work from home. He wanted to you have him all day. To do whatever you like. Punish, ignore, tease. It sounds like a fucking _dream_ Patrick, so you better take it, otherwise I’m just cosplaying as you and I’ll take the ticket, please. ”
> 
> Pat feels the hairs stand up on his arm. It _does_ sound good. Having Brian all day. Doing whatever filthy things his wicked old heart desires. “Why don’t you come over for dinner, then.”
> 
> “No, no, this is about you two.”
> 
> “I’d enjoy your company,” Pat murmurs.
> 
> Simone’s brow is furrowed. It’s hard for her to resist a temptation like this, Pat knows. But she is trying to be a good friend. “It’s supposed to be for _you_ , Pat. Not about me. I’m just the messenger.”
> 
> “Come anyway? It’d make things easier for me. It’s a real joy, when you take care of directing. You always find a way to make everybody happy.”
> 
> Her expression eases. “I _could_ take a load off you, if you want. Then you don’t have to think about how to wrap it up. You can just relax and really go wild. Would you like that?”

“Yes ma’am.” he intones politely, in that way she likes. “Thank you, ma’am.” It makes her purr, the politeness, and the anticipation.

“Oh Patty you _devil._ I’m really getting attached to you two. You’re going to ruin my image.”

“Heaven forbid,” Pat says, and she smacks him and goes to sleep.

  
  
  
  
  


Monday rolls around soon enough. Pat starts it off by pushing the kid unceremoniously out of bed.

“Get up.”

“ _Oof!_ ” Brian exclaims, waking from sleep to hard floor, not far enough to really do anything but enough to remind him that _today is not about you, kid_. “What’d’I do?”

“Plenty,” Pat says, flatly. “You’ve got the day off today, so you can go make breakfast.”

“All right, all right, I’m going,” Brian says, standing and rubbing his arm, sullen. It’s cute, how fast he falls into character, even with a rude awakening like that. “You could just _ask_ next time.”

“Cut the sass,” Pat says sharply, smacking him on the ass. “And hop to.”

Brian shuffles off, pouting, but quick enough. He’s excited, Pat can tell—not quite knowing where this is gonna go.

Pat lies in bed a few minutes more, checking his texts, until he smells fresh coffee and sausage sizzling and biscuits too. He smiles. The perks, as Simone would say, of being an asshole. Eventually Pat yawns and gets up and wanders over to settle himself at the table so he can face the kitchen.  He opens the paper—he hasn’t had a newspaper in his house in _years_ , honestly, even for crosswords—but yknow, sometimes you gotta spend a few quarters to get the perfect _I’m-ignoring-your-ass_ vibe.

Brian brings Pat coffee how he likes it and a plate of food first, and does the dishes before he sits down to eat. Pat can’t even tell if the kid is being good on purpose today, or if it’s just regular old Brian being Brian.

When Brian settles down in his chair across from Pat—Pat’s already long done eating, and though the biscuits and gravy was fucking delicious he’s not going to say a damn thing about it—Pat looks up. He cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”

Brian is wide-eyed. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. “Am I—not supposed—to eat?”

“No, no, eat if you want.” Pat sighs, returning to his paper, as if Brian’s committed some sin but he’s being quite merciful, today.

It’s so adorable, the little confused face. Thinking. “Should I do something else first?”

“Well, I woke up hard because of _you_ , so I should think that might be your first concern,” Pat says darkly. “But do what you want.”

Brian blushes. He wavers for a second, as if thinking _am I really supposed to…?_ and then melts to his knees, apologizing. “Sorry, sorry.” His hands move swift, obedient, getting Pat out over the elastic of his pajamas gently and putting his hot little mouth to work without question. It’s fucking _good_ , even though Pat does nothing to make the angle easy. The table hides Pat’s blissful, grateful expression, and thank heavens, because it’d spoil the whole thing, really.

He lets himself come fairly soon, because Brian is working _hard._ A grunt is all he gives the kid, in warning. Brian swallows obediently and licks him clean and tucks him back in. It’s sweet how he pops back up at the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking a little nervous and a little pleased with himself, that face he gets when he knows he deserves some praise.

Pat doesn’t give it to him, though. Just gets up, and goes to shower.

  
  
  
  
  


Brian is cleaning, when Pat emerges, because he’s a clever thing and he’s wise to the game by now. He’s standing on the sofa, dusting shelves, and humming to himself innocently, a sweet rambly tune.

Pat parks himself at his computer and thinks about how he wants to do this. The kid’ll get bored, if he has to clean all day. He can get maybe an hour out of that, tops. But might as well make it good.

“Hey,” he says, and Brian looks over, sharply attentive. “Any reason you have to do that with a shirt on?”

“Nope,” Brian ducks his chin, hiding a smile. He steps down and strips it off, and he’s probably making a little show of it for Pat, but Pat is studiously booting up his computer and looking at the loading screen, and _not_ staring lustily at that indescribably addictive little body. Certainly not.

Brian _does_ smirk, though, as he turns back to his shelves, and he’s completely buck-naked, so Pat feels like maybe he lost that round. Okay. One point to the kid. But yknow. Sometimes you just take the L and move on.

It’s hopelessly self-indulgent, the thought that occurs to him next. “Hey, come over here.”

Again, Brian’s quick to obey, flitting over on his light bare feet and presenting himself at Pat’s desk. “Yes?”

“Let me throw something on you,” he says, noncommittally. Pat doesn’t bother hiding what he’s looking for, lets Brian watch him pull out the black leather collar. The kid raises his chin obediently when Pat approaches with it and lets him buckle it around his neck. It’s thick and heavy, and just fucking delightful, the way it sits on Brian’s pale throat, the way the thin chain links hang down the front, in case he needs to be pulled somewhere. Brian’s blushing, a little bit, the way he gets when he’s feeling Pat’s lecherous grin particularly strongly, and Pat knows his face is continuing to divulge too much for the fiction of _asshole-whose-cowed-little-boyfriend-indulges-his-every-ridiculous-whim._ But he’s just too fucking pretty.

“You like me like this, daddy?” Brian flirts, a little naughty, and Pat knows his pupils probably go wide.

“Just trying to remind you what to focus on, baby boy,” Pat murmurs, with somewhat less conviction than normal, because it’s taking all of his wordly concentration not to yank that chain and pull the kid into a kiss.

“ _I’m_ focused,” Brian smirks. God damn it. God _damn_ it Patrick, pay attention to what you’re doing.

“Get back to it, then,” he gives the kid a little shove. “Don’t step on that and choke your damn self.”

“Yessir,” Brian says meekly and goes back to dusting.

  
  
  
  


A few more chores later, and Pat’s got himself at least slightly into his workday, although of course he’s set a productivity trap for himself that he has no way to avoid. Ah well. Not every Monday can be a winner.

He makes sure to studiously ignore Brian until the kid is right in the middle of a task. Then Pat gets up—to go for water, or the bathroom, or just to pace a bit and think—and swing by close and jerk Brian up against him. The kid lets himself be yanked and then released without much comment, although sometimes there’s a shadow of a whimper when Pat _really_ feels him up.

Eventually Brian’s bored of cleaning. Pat doesn’t give him anything else to do, though.

“Can I watch TV?” He bounces on the balls of his feet, fingering the collar around his neck.

“It’ll distract me,” Pat waves a hand dismissively.

“I’ll turn the sound off,” Brian wheedles. “I’ll use captions.”

“Fine, then.”

The kid sits crosslegged on the couch and flits through Youtube videos—Pat ignores him and goes back to working. He reckons he’ll get somewhere around twenty minutes. If that. Better make it count.

Maybe the kid’s trying to be courteous of Pat’s to-do list, or maybe he’s genuinely enjoying a little time to just chill, though, because it’s almost an hour and almost a whole script edited before Brian tries to start some shit.  

Pat hitches up an arm to scratch an itch on his neck and realizes—

oh that little _shit_ —

Brian’s playing a video, and he’s got the sound on _real_ quiet, and Pat’s facing the wrong way to see it—but that hollow little wooden tapping sound is definitely enough to make his scalp buzz.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Pat growls. He stands up in a huff and snatches the remote away from Brian’s fingers, flicks off his ASMR playlist and then, upon reflection, the entire TV.

“Just trying to help you concentrate,” Brian says with that little _smile_. “I read some people like it while they work.”

Pat curls his left hand in the chain and tugs—Brian unfurls his legs and pushes his back against the couch and grips at the collar. He’s not really resisting, just looking up, wide-eyed, letting nerves wash over him and blank out his smiling face. Pat stares down at him for a few moments. It builds dramatic tension, the pausing. And also, he’s trying to fix the image in his mind to describe to Simone later. She’ll like this one. He can hear her voice in his head.

 _Ooh, Patty, I_ _told_ _you this one needs discipline. I’ll give it to him if you want. I’d push that little twink right off the couch and get out a belt. Think about how good he’ll look backing away from you, all scared, till he hits the wall. Nowhere to go. Think how he’ll_ _squeal_ _._

Pat’s not gonna do that, though. Not now. He’s patient. It’s not even lunchtime, yet.

Brian’s biting his lip. So sweetly _nervous_ , chin tipped up, eyes watching very closely, whipcord tense and still pressing back a little, keeping the chain taut.

“You’re trying to piss me off. Because you’re bored.”

Brian’s eyes dart to the side—a tell, intentional or unintentional. “No, sir. I’m not.”

“You’re lying,” Pat leans down to grab the little chin, pinch the pouty lip between his thumb and forefinger forcefully. “Ungrateful brat. I give you the day off and this is the thanks I get.”

There’s no attempt at a response, but the kid flinches when Pat moves. Pat’s left hand pick up the new slack in the chain, loops it around his fist.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit right now. You lost TV privileges.”

Things Brian can do: switch quickly between looking very scared, and looking very sulky. He makes a whining sound that would probably be a _buuuuuut_ if Pat wasn’t gripping his face.

“You wanna get smacked around. But I’m not giving you what you want. I’m _busy_.”

Brian looks a little stricken, and moreso when Pat lets go of him.

“Go take a shower. Fucking cool off.”

The kid hesitates, so Pat gives him some incentive.

“We’ll see if there’s anything useful for you to do when you get back here.”

He scrambles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s easier to ignore Brian when he’s out of sight.

Plus, the kid can’t really complain when his mouth is busy.

“You’re going to tire yourself out if you start like that,” Pat drawls boredly. “Slow down.”

“Sorry, sir,” it sounds faint, from under the desk, but sincere enough. Brian’s tongue retreats to more gentle lapping. His hands are resting on Pat’s thighs, very light, just barely pressing, so he’s got to be balancing most of his weight on his bare knees. His hot breath tickles the hairs at the base of Pat’s cock as he licks carefully up and down its length.

Concentrating is—well, it’s going to be a task—but doable. Brian’s talented. Still, Pat came so hard he saw _stars_ last night, and this morning’s only an hour or two past, and it probably won’t happen or at least it’ll take a _while._ The kid’s jaw will definitely be sore long before then, and he’ll start whining. Pat’ll have to figure out what the next thing is. But that’s a bridge to cross when they come to it. Pat puts in his earbuds, and opens his email.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s fucking _blissful,_ the little hot wet circles as Brian puts his lips to the side of Pat’s dick, kissing up and down with slow purpose and fierce suction. He has to wiggle himself around the far side of Pat’s left knee, lean his weight over it so that his spine curves up and crowds the top of the desk, press his body weight into Pat and let his little fluff of hair spidery-tickle against Pat’s thigh. It’s _very_ good, and _very_ wet, and in between each heavy sucking motion the kid licks wetly down his length again.

From the side is also good because when Brian gets tired of sucking hard circles he can open wide and jam Pat in, making his tongue nice and firm and ensuring an interesting, asymmetrical sensation. It’s immensely distracting for Pat, to visualize the bulge of his tip in the kid’s cheek, and to hear the little enthusiastic smacking sounds and grunts as the weight shifts in the restricted space.

Pat snakes a hand under the desk, runs it up the kid’s ass. He can’t control himself. Brian hums in pleasure and presses upward, knees leaving the floor briefly as his toes push him up. Pat lets his hand ghost over the little point of his hip, bite into it with a fingernail.

Pat’s not sure how to move the scene along, not really, and he’s not supposed to stress himself out thinking about it. He permits himself a moment of tentativeness.  

 

> “I’d like to tell you you’re doing a poor job,” Pat murmurs indistinctly, so soft he’s uncertain if Brian will hear. “That you’re lazy. But you’re making it a touch difficult.”
> 
> Brian hums at the praise and pulls off for a second, resting the side of his head on Pat’s lap and taking a breath. “Thank you. I try.”
> 
> “You do.” Pat sighs. “I don’t really have an exit strategy unless you start slacking off. Can you figure out how to tap out? Pace? Teeth? Whining? _Anything_.”
> 
> “Please don’t make me,” Brian says softly. “Can’t I just be good?”
> 
> “Kid, it’s been thirty minutes and I don’t think I’m gonna come from this. And you are making it _really_ fuckin’ good. It’s hard to ask you to stop.”
> 
> “Then don’t. I could do this all day,” Brian’s thready little voice is earnest. “I _want_ to. Please.”
> 
> Pat pulls his chair back slightly, makes space so that Brian can come kneel in front of him. The kid’s a frizzy mess—Pat leans over, elbows on his knees, to brush back his hair. His lips are bright red and wet. The collar continues to thrill Pat, as do the shining eyes burning with praise and pleading. Just heavenly.
> 
> “You sure, Bri? I can play it that way, if you’d like.”
> 
> “ _Please._ ”
> 
> “I don’t want to hurt you,” Pat admits, pressing his fingers to the bones of the kid’s jaw and turning his head back and forth.
> 
> “Now that’s rich,” Brian says, eyes sparkling. “I _know_ you were going to hit me next.”
> 
> “Hmm. So we’re just prolonging the inevitable down here, are we?” Pat chuckles.
> 
> “I’m a tricky little slut,” Brian cocks his head, and the way he says it is not unlike how he says _I’m pretty good at Celeste_ , all humble-pride.
> 
> “You are,” Pat agrees, and lets his voice snake back in the direction of stern. “Let’s make a deal, hmm? You suck my cock until I get tired of you. If I get bored I’ll take it out on your ass instead.”
> 
> Brian raises his hand, impishly. Pat rolls his eyes. “You have a question.”
> 
> “Yessir. Does _bored_ mean _soft_?”
> 
> “To a first approximation,” Pat says, amused, although he knows underestimating Brian’s endurance is a mistake. The little hand shoots up again.
> 
> “ _Yes_ , Hermione?”
> 
> “If I get you off can I have lunch?”
> 
> _Jesus_ . Pat swallows. He supposed he started that game this morning, but it does _wild,_ wicked things to his heart rate, the thought of Brian bruising up his knees all afternoon, hungry, eager, trying to earn his keep. How does this kid keep finding new buttons to push, inside him. Buttons he didn’t even know he had.
> 
> “ _Please_ ?” His little innocent face, so open and pleading, as if Pat is gonna say _no_. Christ.

“Sounds fair,” Pat gets out, fairly evenly, mastering himself. “You swallow my come before you get to eat again. You’ll have to think about what you’re going to do to deserve dinner.”

“Yessir,” Brian nods eagerly, and lets Pat shove him back under the desk.

  
  
  
  


Brian is _capable_ of being good, but he likes more to be wicked. With rare exception, he plans the scenes around that. Little mistakes, sometimes, or downright brattiness. Sometimes he wants to be scolded for ridiculous things, and sometimes he wants Pat to be legitimately frustrated. He’ll even lie about what he’s going to do, if he thinks it’ll build up some good tension.

So it’s not _surprising—_

that that earnest little soft face—

that sweet little question—

_Please can I just be good?_

That was definitely lying—

Brian snuck his own motives into this scene, as usual—

Brian tricked Pat into this game.

It’s getting well past an hour, and Brian is _edging_ him. The little bastard is sucking and bobbing, and then, whenever Pat gets remotely close, kissing down his hairy thighs and easing off with his hot breath, faint fingertips, shit like that. It’s fucking great—Pat actually loves that kind of thing—he’s got good self-control, because Simone is of the opinion that blueballs are a construct of the patriarchy, and she’s maybe not even wrong.

Brian isn’t pushing him that close. Just working him up a bit, getting his attention, and then easing back. It makes finishing his work oddly _possible_ , the calmer moments, and don’t get Pat wrong it feels fucking incredible. But it _does_ tick Pat off a little, how good the kid is at topping from the bottom. How he gets his wicked little plotting fingers into everything. How he sees Pat’s concern for his well-being as a _challenge_ . How he sneaks his way into getting exactly what he wants. How he’s not gonna let Pat fucking _let him eat_ for the love of Christ.

And then Pat finds himself worked up into that just-shy-of-angry headspace where he doesn’t care _quite_ so much how bad the bruises on Brian’s knees are gonna be tomorrow. Ah well. Fuck it.

“Stop it,” Pat barks, and pulls back. Brian emerges on all fours. “Stay there.”

The little red face looks up impishly as Pat stands. He wanders over to the fridge, grumbling. When he returns, sipping a yogurt, he just kicks a water bottle under the desk without comment.

“Thank you, sir,” Brian chirps. When his mouth finds its way back to Pat’s dick, it’s _cold_.

  
  
  
  


After _three fucking hours_ Brian is breathing hard and taking a lot of breaks, and Pat can more or less detect when he actually starts trying to finish the fight. Pat holds out a little longer, though. He has a couple tricks left up his sleeve. The kid told him to be mean, after all.

“Let’s see you,” he reaches down and grabs the chain, yanks Brian out by his collar. He falls, actually, at the suddenness, although he catches himself on all fours. “Sit up.”

It’s a struggle. Probably he’s been shifting weight around, down there, but not enough that it doesn’t ache. He’s trembling a little, on his knees. He probably has to pee. He doesn’t whine, though, just throws back his hair, red-cheeked, and gives a look that Pat can only describe as _tough._

And Pat gets it, actually. He really does. This, he understands.

“Taking you a while down there. Not as talented as you thought, hmm?”

Brian raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

“You’re too late for lunch now. You’ll spoil your dinner.” He gets a nod of acknowledgement. “I’m having Simone over. Are you going to embarrass me with a showing like this, for her? I’m _sure_ she’ll let you fuck around for three hours, but I don’t think she’ll be as nice about it.”

A look flits across Brian’s face. “Let me keep trying. I’ll be quick. Sir.”

“Hm. Why don’t you go clean up a bit. Take a piss. Then we’ll see whether I feel like it.”

  
  
  
  
  


The kid emerges a little tidier, face washed with cold water and hair tamed. He’s not trembling anymore. He looks quite calm. Pat wonders if Brian can get into subspace without ropes or pain or sex or characters. He’s never seen it before, he doesn’t think. Pat can, just from being humiliated bad enough that he goes out of his body. Pat wonders if he can do that, for Brian.

“Get on your knees again.” Brian does, hard and fast and grateful. My god, the kid loves bruises. “What do you want, slut. Tell me. A nap? A break? A snack? Some _attention_?”

“I want to finish you off, sir.”

Pat’s stroking himself now, right in Brian’s face. “I think I’ll just do it myself, thanks. I can’t wait around all night.”

“Please let me,” Brian’s eyes flick up. “I’ll stop messing around.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You can fuck my face, instead, sir?” Brian says hopefully.  

“Maybe your mouth is boring me.”

“My ass?”

“Why should I give you my cock at all?” Pat says slowly, hand in the kid’s hair. Brian’s hiked up high on his knees so that he’s at eye level with what he wants, and the hand is steadying him. “To reward you for screwing around?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Brian drops his gaze contritely.

“I’d send you to bed but you wouldn’t stay. I’d tie you up but you’d get your ass free. I’d hit you but you’d _cry_ . What am I supposed to do, with a whore who won’t satisfy me _and_ won’t do what they’re told?”

Brian shifts a bit. That lands, that one. “ _Please_ , sir, let me try again.”

“No. You don’t _listen_. You’re not listening now. All you’re thinking about is how bad you want a cock in you. Isn’t that right.”

“Yes sir,” Brian says quickly. “You’re right. I’m a cock slut.”

“It’s so _easy_ for you to say it,” Pat presses a finger to the kid’s collarbone. “But you don’t _feel_ it. Not really. You don’t see how pathetic you are. Begging like a dog. I haven’t done a damn thing to you all day. There’s no one threatening you. You just are this way. You’ll take anything I give you.”

Brian nods eagerly. Fucking hell this is not going to work.

“Well, I appreciate the sincerity, anyway,” Pat sighs, and brushes back his hair. “You really have no shame.”

He shrugs. “I can pretend to have shame, if you want. Sir.”

“No, no.” Pat sighs. Lets his tone shift out, for a second—

 

> “Kid, you’re good at honesty. Let’s do that for a minute. What’re you thinking.”
> 
> Brian looks up, thoughtful. “Sucking you was very nice. Meditative. I could do it more, if you want.”
> 
> “I’m afraid you’d get tired before Simone gets here.”
> 
> Brian tips his head. “I could just be tired, then. If she wants my mouth, I’ll live. I would be kind of ecstatic if tomorrow I get to brag about giving head for the longest I ever have in a day.”
> 
> Incorrigible. “Who will you be bragging to, Brian?”
> 
> Brian grins. “The bruises will be spectacular. Jonah will ask, if no one else.”
> 
> Pat strokes his hair, lets himself be thoughtful. He’s not quite sure what to do. Brian’s tricky.  “You always seem like you have no limits, until you do.”
> 
> “Did it scare you, when I safeworded on Saturday?” Pat feels himself wince, and Brian hurries. “Not gonna apologize. Just wanted to clarify. Really not about you. Was in the wrong headspace. Just frustrated.”
> 
> “I am starting to realize we have a different relationship to safewords,” Pat says, slowly.
> 
> Brian gives a little smile. “Yours do tend to be very dramatic. You could use it earlier, you know.”
> 
> “I really couldn’t,” Pat admits. “It’s part of it, for me.”
> 
> “You like your back really up against the wall.” Brian’s voice is soft. “I worry that _you_ have no limits. That I’ll do something which you find _awful_ and you’ll just _take it_ and _keep taking it_ because you feel like you deserve it.”
> 
> Pat waves a hand, dismisses the worry. “You can’t tell me that having this conversation on your knees right now isn’t awful. You’re wincing.”
> 
> “Oh it hurts,” Brian smiles. “Hurts _real_ good. But I don’t deserve it. I _like_ it, Patrick.”
> 
> This is something that Brian’s said before, about the kinds of ways he likes to be hurt. Pat likes a good smack—something about the stinginess of it—any kind of blow, really, kicks and punches and slaps. It’s something about the sound, the feeling, how the impact comes first and the pain later. It’s visceral and dark and it fits in his mind, some primal urge that wants to fight and be fought.
> 
> Brian’ll do that too, but the kid has a taste for some things that to Pat are just agony. And agony is good if it has a purpose, but Pat doesn’t like it _in itself_. “I never know how you stand stuff like this.”
> 
> “You’ve done worse. Simone made you kneel on rice.”
> 
> Pat snorts. “That fucking _sucked_. But I toughed it out. Thought the whole time about what a tough bitch my grandma was, and how much I hated her babysitting.”
> 
> Brian blinks. “If something like that happened to me when I was a kid I wouldn’t want to do it ever again.”
> 
> “Eh, you might. It’s fun. Either you don’t cry and you think _fuck you you dumb cunt I’ve toughened_ up, or you do cry, and Simone says _you’re gorgeous baby all I wanted was some pretty tears I’m so proud_ and either way you feel pretty fuckin’ stellar.”
> 
> Brian is looking at Pat with a reverent expression, and Pat realizes he’s said a bit more than he normally would. It’s just so strange, to look at the kid, kneeling in front of him, in pain, and realize that the kid wants _more_ and he doesn’t even have any particular reason _why_. “So what’s your deal, then.”
> 
> “I—” Brian reaches for words. “I’m a masochist?”
> 
> “I think we’re both classifiable.”
> 
> “It’s different. Um. Like. Do you remember being a kid and hating the taste of bitter stuff? like wine? or coffee?”
> 
> “Yup. And we all train ourselves to like it because we’re fucking morons who want to fit in.”
> 
> “Exactly. I just wanted to like it. Because I like _liking_ things. If you like wine, there are a million things you can enjoy that other people don’t like. There’s whole _worlds_ of liking things.”
> 
> “So what’s the flavor of the moment.”
> 
> “It’s—” Brian’s gaze goes distant for a minute. “Fresh bruises feel really different for like, the first 12 hours or so. It doesn’t ache like a regular bruise. It’s very raw. Surface level. You can grind them a lot more than an old bruise. Your body will fight you on an old bruise.”
> 
> “Hence why you’re seizing the moment?”
> 
> Brian smiles. “Among other reasons.” He pauses, coughs. “Another thing that’s nice is I don’t have to think a lot right now if I don’t want to. I could just think about the pain. And like. When you think about it really really carefully and try to think about how to describe it and feel all of the parts of it separately, and then put it back together. Kinda like listening to a bad song and picking apart every single sound. It stops being so unpleasant. It’s too interesting.”
> 
> “That’s pretty wild, kid, but the not-thinking bit I get.”
> 
> “It’s real kinky,” Brian dimples. “And it _does_ take effort not to cry. Or wince. Or do normal body reaction stuff. I usually don’t bother. Not like you.”
> 
> “Lazy,” Pat breathes, tapping Brian on the forehead. “Like I said.”
> 
> “What dyou want to do with me?” Brian cocks his head. “I thought I might need to get up but I’m kind of pushing through. And my jaw’s better. I could probably go another hour. I’m interested in if it’ll hurt differently than usual.”
> 
> “You _commit_ , kid, never let anyone tell you different. All right. Another hour of me being an asshole, then I’m giving you a break whether you want it or not. And Simone’s coming over and she’s going to fuck the living shit out of you, so get ready for that.”
> 
> “Oh goodie,” Brian chuckles. “So ready. _God_ I’m gonna be tired tomorrow.”
> 
> “Don’t look so cheery,” Pat scratches the kid’s head. “She’s very excited about it, and I’m not gonna bother stepping in, so I hope your safeword isn’t rusty.”
> 
> Brian sets his jaw. He flicks his eyes up. “Don’t wuss out before I do.”
> 
> “Oh, now you’re _really_ gonna get it,” Pat growls.

Brian’s gaze is like a dare, so Pat grabs him.

“If you want to finish me off, slut, you’re gonna have to _earn_ it. So you like topping from the bottom, huh? Running the scene your way? Why don’t you take control then. Crawl your ass over to the toys and get me something to prove to me that you _really_ want my cock.”

Brian’s gaze opens a little, surprised, and he’s _very_ surprised when his hesitation earns him a slap.

“Pretty shitty scene management, if you can’t even keep a straight face at _that_.”

That attempt at a dark scowl, though, is adorable, and Pat’s so very proud.

  
  
  
  


Pat rejects the first two things Brian picks out—all the more excuse to make the kid crawl over the floor and then sit up, blushing, waiting to present something he’s just fetched. The nipple clamps aren’t really his style, anyway, and the rope would just be too fun. They’d both get distracted.

A ring gag is a fucking _interesting_ third choice, though, for someone who’s already got an aching jaw and been promised an hour more of work for it. Considering Brian knows the rule of threes, though, Pat figures the kid knows what he’s doing.

“Now this might be worth it. No way for you to fucking mouth off. Come here.”

He muscles the ring between Brian’s teeth, buckles it tight, tips the kid’s chin up. His face is a bit more vulnerable, red lips stretched around the black plastic, but he’s still got that stubborn look as if to say _I can definitely do this don’t you dare let up._ All righty then.

“Good. Now go get your thigh cuffs and your squeaky toy, pet. Let’s see how bad you want daddy’s cock.”

Brian does, apparently, want it pretty badly. It thrills the blood in Pat’s deepest veins to see him crawling delicate on bruised knees. The kid is a wizard at blowjobs, but with his hands linked to his thighs and his mouth held wide, there’s not much left in his arsenal. Even bobbing up and down might be a trick, with the pain in his knees. A real predicament he’s gotten himself into.

He doesn’t cry though, and he doesn’t even make those little plaintive noises that Patrick loves so much. He just sets himself to the task of sucking and licking, moving as much as he can. Pat rests a hand on the kid’s head while he clicks around articles, as if to say _if your tongue gets too boring I’m not afraid to take charge, here._

It’s a lovely hour. Brian’s panting and gasping is delightfully bare of artifice. He can _hear_ the kid pushing through it, hear frustration and triumph and satisfaction and pain in every breath.

The whole time, the kid only squeaks once—one squeak, for yellow—and Pat lets his hair go and pulls back so Brian can curl up for a second and just breathe. He doesn’t ask if Brian’s okay, doesn’t try to assess why, just lets him sit and decide. Two squeaks, or carry on.

Brian comes back to it with ferocity, or as much ferocity as his limited mobility can muster. “You’re getting pretty close,” Pat hums in amusement. “If you make me come, I’ll let you rest on the couch until Simone gets here.”

Brian _does_ try, and it’s _cruel_ , it’s cruel of Pat to resist the urge, to use his well-trained self-control for evil. But he so rarely has Brian declawed in this way, so rarely is Brian foiled in the attempt to get Pat exactly where he wants him, and it’s such a delight, the little sob, when Pat says “Time’s up,” and pulls away. Just this once.

“No rest for the weary, then,” Pat clucks, pulling the kid up hard by the arm. He needs to take a lot of the weight while Brian gets his feet under him. The gag gets pulled out, but Pat has a dash of that wicked inspiration again and leaves the cuffs on his wrists. It’s…cruelly self-indulgent, but that was the motivation he was handed, so…  

The over-door restraints are easy to set up, just like he practiced, and Brian doesn’t balk while he’s doing it, so Pat supposes that means he’s game. The cuffs attach and pull Brian’s arms up and wide apart. He spreads the kid’s legs too, less wide—just a bit—and locks them in place, and stands back to admire his handiwork.  

Brian’s not trembling, and his weight is on his feet and not his wrists, so he’s probably okay. And it’s _more_ than okay, how delightfully helpless he is, how his limbs are stretched wide and he’s completely exposed, how he’s exhausted and still breathing a bit heavy and his head is hanging down, pathetically limp, hair covering his face.

“At least your knees get a little break,” Pat muses.  

“Thank you, sir,” Brian whimpers, and Pat leaves him there to go start dinner.

  
  
  
  


It’s a simple recipe. Pat’s not much of a chef. He can make a pot roast, though, the way his grandma did—simple and grouchy—and mashed potatoes, and although she wouldn’t have bothered with a vegetable he is going to make at least a token effort.

Brian’s got his head up again, soon enough, watching Pat with careful eyes and shifting his weight only slightly. Pat occasionally asks him for cooking advice— _should I brown this first? do you think this is half a cup of onions?—_ and Brian obliges with neutral _yes sir_ and _no sirs_ and sometimes little flurries of explanation that forget to shift back into his sweet submissive tone at the end.

There’s no reason to resist the urge to tease, so Pat does. He wanders over, eating a carrot noisily, and ponders directly in front of his prey.

“How’s it hangin, kid.”

Brian snorts, and dips out of it for a second.

 

> “You can be a real jackass, Pat.”
> 
> “Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment.”
> 
> “Har-de-har. But yeah, I’m fine. Can I get some water?”
> 
> “Sure thing.” Pat brings him a cup. It always thrills Pat a little bit, tipping a glass to the kid’s lips when he’s been helpless for so long that he needs it. There’s nothing so vulnerable as that greedy little tongue, gratefully accepting whatever meager relief Patrick is kind enough to provide. Pat isn’t cruel enough to deny him _this_ , of course, but it’s a little jolt of dark magic to think that he _could_ , if he were so inclined.
> 
> Brian pulls away and smacks his lips, smiling a bit. “I love watching you think about torturing me.”
> 
> “Oh? Why’s that.”
> 
> “You get such a _look_. You’re a real sweetheart, Pat Gill, but something about your face has that Iago vibe.”
> 
> “…the bird from Aladdin?”
> 
> Brian snorts. “No, no. That voice—” he shudders. “No. I mean from _Othello_ . Actually no. I’d cast you as _Richard III._ You’d slay as Gloucester.”
> 
> “Gloucester?”
> 
> “The lovable scoundrel. The titular Richard. There were a lot of Richards in England I guess. Give me a line read on _I am determined to prove a villain_.”
> 
> Pat tries, to amuse him.
> 
> “Hit the _ed_ harder so it fits with the meter. It also carries meaning. He’s saying ‘I have decided to become a villain,’ but when you hit that _ed_ , it also means ‘I have been decided by fate to become a villain.’”
> 
> The things in this kid’s mind. Endless depth. All in one little _ed_.
> 
> “There we go. Ooh, you’d be great. He’s a hunchback, though, so you’d have to do some physical work. I think you could handle it. You just have to make your walk look tortured.”
> 
> “Oh,” Pat blinks. “I actually _have_ seen that one, I think. I don’t remember when. Maybe in college. _A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse?_ ”
> 
> “Yeah!”
> 
> “Shit, I don’t remember Richard being very _lovable_. I think he murdered a bunch of kids?”
> 
> “That’s right,” Brian grins lopsidedly. “And I was rooting for him the whole time.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


When she arrives, Simone _bangs_ in the door with such exuberance that Brian—all the way across the room dangling on the bathroom door— _flinches._

“Oh _yes,_ yes, mama like!” she announces, throwing her stuff down. Pat can’t help laughing out loud. She’s already pulling her hair up, elastic band off her wrist, adjusting herself into a nice athletic ponytail so she can _get down to business_.

“Good evening to you too, Simone,” Pat grins as she sweeps past him without greeting. “Nice to know you still have the spare key.”

“Patty, Patty, don’t _chide_ me,” she clucks, as she runs her hands all over Brian’s little trembling body, feeling for bruises and making him gasp. “You didn’t call me over here to be _patient_ , that’s your job. Ooh, what have you done, what have you _done_ , boy, look at your knees. Tell me what naughty thing you did.” Because she’s Simone, she’s grabbing them none-too-gently.

“What have _I_ done,” Brian whines. “ ‘swhat _Pat_ did, ma’am. He started before I even _woke up_.”

Simone’s laugh is just uproarious. “Did he now? What’d he do to you, poor baby?” She tugs his collar, by the chain. Pat rests his elbows on the counter, theatrically, so Brian can see his body telegraph _oh I gotta watch this._

Brian’s exhaustion is alleviated, magically, by the chance to cause mischief. “He’s not feeding me, ma’am.”

“Your little mouth get bored without something in it, baby?” Simone asks, sticking an eager finger in.

“No ma’am he used my mouth for _hours_. I’m just so hungry.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “If you’d gotten me off in five minutes you could’ve eaten right then.”

“It’s not _fair_ ,” Brian whines, because he must have decided that Simone is worth a little show. “He made me suck him off before breakfast, ma’am. I tried my hardest. He couldn’t come again.”

“Oh, you’re _really_ gunning for it, aren’t you,” Pat growls. Simone flicks her head back to look at Pat, and winks.

“He couldn’t, baby? You tried your very best?”

“Yes’m,” Brian lies, wide-eyed and innocent. Simone squeezes his cheeks affectionately.

“Poor baby. How long do we have before dinner, Patrick?” she says, all bubbles and kindness. “Your sweet little thing here is all strung up and _starving._ ”

“I could rush it or not. Fifteen minutes, fifty. Just say the word.” Get ready for the _drop_ , baby boy.

Her hand is already unlatching Brian’s cuffs, pulling his tired limbs down. “ _Wonderful_. That hot little tongue has made me come three times in an hour before, sweet baby, so let’s prove to your daddy you’ve still got it.”

Brian sobs as she pulls him to his knees in front of the couch, but Pat knows he loves it.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Simone claims that dinner is delicious, and Pat takes the compliment, even though he thinks it’s probably just for the benefit of the poor beat-up thing she left curled up on the floor. Pat’s unclear on _exactly_ how many times he made her orgasm—Simone’s a yeller, no matter whether she’s coming or not—but he’s sure the boy gave it his all.

While the two villains confer, Brian stays down, and doesn’t whimper and doesn’t beg. He moves a little, but either he’s hamming it up or he’s resting. Either is fine with Pat for the moment.

Simone, though, finds it hard to ignore the kid. As usual. “Should we make him beg on his knees for his supper?”

Pat gives a half-shrug. “Nah, let’s give the kid a break.” 

“Good idea,” Simone nods. “But you’ve gotta cut it up small for him, then, if he’s gonna eat it off the floor.”

Pat brushes his hair back, speechless. “I—Simone—”

“You _said_ you’d let me drive,” Simone says, leaning across the table to press her fingers into his forearm, hard. “You’ll like it. Trust me. The little bitch can take it.”

“He can,” Brian says, airily, from the floor, hand emerging above the edge of the couch to give a frail thumbs-up.

Pat just finds himself laughing again. His life is too ridiculous. “Fine. We’re putting it in a bowl though. I haven’t mopped in ages.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brian’s voice floats up.

  
  
  
  
  


Pat does actually find it intriguing, watching Brian lap up his dinner—not so much because he makes a mess, he’s really rather tidy about it—but because of how much Simone enjoys it. She loves stopping him to hear him beg, and saying wicked things, and yanking the leash on his collar to make him crawl on his aching knees. Brian’ll probably have to eat again later, Pat notes, because there’s no way he got enough food from just that. Simone was far too distracting. Still, she must have thought he did a fairly good job, because she pats the couch and lets him hop up to lay his head in her lap while she hand-feeds him chocolate chips and makes him suck her fingers. She _loves_ that shit.

Pat feels a surge of affection when Simone asks him to pick out a movie—she’s even doing the scene pacing for him, Brian needs a fucking _rest_ —and another when she acquiesces to _Love and Honor_ , even though it’s the third in a samurai trilogy and probably won’t make any fucking sense to her. Pat decides to park himself beside Simone, so he can rest an arm around her shoulders—she pulls the kid up a little so he’s over both of their laps.

While they watch, Brian doesn’t face the TV. He’s on his side, curled into Pat’s belly, making soft approving sounds whenever Pat pets him.

“Good boy,” Simone strokes the kid’s arm tenderly. “Just rest up a bit. You’re doing so good. Taking care of your daddy all day. He’s a little fickle sometimes. But I know he means well.”

“You _definitely_ don’t know that,” Pat murmurs.

“Don’t contradict me,” she says, soft but _flat._ “I will turn this scene around, mister.”

“Oh?” Pat pushes, letting his tone match his dark smile. He’s having _too_ much fun. This day’s been too nice, and he’s been too wicked. Surely, surely in Act V he deserves to get his comeuppance. “I don’t know if you can handle the both of us.”

“Patrick,” Simone’s voice is sharp. “Don’t you dare.”

“Simooone,” Brian whimpers, shuffling a little. “You promised.”

She taps fingers on Brian’s elbow. “I never said I’d _hurt_ him. He’s _baiting_ me, Brian.”

“Let him,” Brian fusses. “Or take it out on me.”

“Shhh,” Pat says, stroking the kid’s hair. “Sorry, sorry Simone. You’re right. You’re driving. Apologies.”

“That’s right,” she sniffs, and shoves Brian so hard that he falls off both their laps with a squeak. “Go get me a soda, then, if you’re just gonna sit here and chit-chat.”

Brian gets her soda and one for Pat and water for himself. Simone, in her infinite mercy, lets him back on her lap.

  
  
  
  


When they retire for the evening, Simone’s back to her earlier mood, fabulously excited and touching Brian all over. She’s seated herself cross-legged on Pat’s bed, in her bra and boxers, and is pulling the boy toward her, face first, hands brushing and rumpling his hair. They’re speaking softly, but Pat can hear them.

“What’s his favorite position, doll. How does your daddy like to fuck you.”

“He likes most everything,” Brian says softly. “I dunno if he wants it, but I really _really_ want to use my mouth. Because I fucked up earlier. I want to show him I can be good.”

Pat smirks. Sure. Motives entirely altruistic. Look, kid’s going for a record, he gets it.

Simone eyes his smile. “He seems to like that idea, baby. Your sweet little mouth on him again, making up your sins. You could do that on all fours, couldn’t you?”

Brian shivers. “It might be tricky on the floor, ma’am. He’s tall. Could he sit?”

“No, no, we want him to have his fun. I mean on all fours on the bed. He can stand. Then he can _really_ fuck your face if he wants to.”

“I can do that,” Brian says. Pat hears it faintly, while he turns to shuck his clothes off, and he _barely_ hears the kid add, in a shy whisper, “And what will _you_ do, ma’am.”

“What do you _think_ I’m gonna do, pet,” she says, curling her nails around his hips to grab his ass.

“Oh please,” he whines. _“Please_ , fuck me, ma’am. Please.”

“So _needy,_ ” Simone tugs. “Tonight isn’t _about_ you, silly. I’m not gonna do it because you want it. Even if I _do_ have a new dildo, and you’d really like it. Let me check with my associate over here.”

Brian pouts as she unfurls herself quickly and springs up with barely-contained excitement and wraps herself around Pat’s naked torso. Her hug pins Pat’s arms to his sides. Her energy says _can I can I can I oh can I_ but she makes her voice calm—it must be for Brian’s benefit—she’s not fooling Pat. “Patrick. I should really spend my time doting on _you_ this evening, shouldn’t I?”

When he chuckles, she squeezes his chest hard.

“He’s been a good boy today, Simone. You can fuck him, if you want. I’m sure you’ll make it fun.”

Because Pat’s given her what she wanted, she releases him, trails a hand up his chest. “Oh darling I will, I _will_ , you _know_ I will. But are you sure?” She leans close, and her trilling brilliant lilting voice becomes something wicked, slick and soft. “Would you _really_ like that?”

Pat closes his eyes, because Simone doesn’t do _dirty talk_ , Simone is _heinous_ , and she’s leaning forward with that look in her eye and twisting both hands in Pat’s hair so he can’t get away from her. He doesn’t need to be convinced, but she’s going to do it anyway.

“Do you think he’ll be able to hold himself up, with both of us pounding into him?”

“Jesus, Simone. I…”

“Do you want to watch me fuck hard into him, when he’s got nowhere to go but choke deeper on your cock? Do you want to feel him scream around your dick, daddy? When I hit a good spot? Would you like that?”

He can’t respond to this obscenity as she wrenches him down for a kiss. He lets her thrust her tongue between his lips, then bite his lip fiercely. Her hands find the back of his head, pressing his forehead down into hers, finding between their curtain of dark hair a warm spot of breath. His hands are around her shoulders.

“Would you really like it, daddy,” Simone whispers, “and would _he_ , or is he too worn out.”

“I think if you said all that within earshot and didn’t give it to him,” Pat breathes, ruffling the hair, his or hers, hard to tell. “He’d cry all night long, and neither of us would get any sleep.”

“I figured,” she kisses his chin. “Just checking. Boy’s had a long day.”

“I was given specific instructions not to call it early on his behalf,” Pat murmurs. “So don’t get me in trouble.”

“Enjoy the show, then,” Simone grins wickedly and breaks away.

  
  


Simone makes Brian lie down first, so she can climb over him, spiderlike, and thrust her harness in his face. She wants him to appreciate her new dildo, which is admittedly an impressive piece, asymmetrically-veined with real heft and a velvety-soft texture that makes Brian hum as she brushes it across his face.

“Wow, I didn’t know they made them so _realistic_ —” he’s got his hand up, pinching the thing, and it moves like skin in a way that Pat’s sure he would find eerie if it were disembodied. But slotted onto Simone’s smooth hips it doesn’t seem so strange—he just needs to remember not to look when she pops it off later. Too gory.

“I’m sure it won’t feel quite as nice as your daddy’s,” Simone says, because she’s a gentleman, “But tonight you don’t have to pick, lucky boy. Who do you want to work you open? Me or Pat or just your own little self.”

Brian’s eyes flit in Pat’s direction. “Your choice.”

“That means he wants me,” Pat chuckles. “Cmere, baby boy. You’ve been so good.”

The kid is electrified by the praise, eagerly pushing his hips to the edge of the bed, holding up his knees to allow easy access. Pat’s put some time into learning how to finger him open. These days, he can do it fun and flirty or rough and tumble, as the spirit moves him. He finds a middle ground, thrusting in firm but slow and trying to squeeze a few pleased sounds out before they even get started.

“That’s enough, daddy,” Simone swats at him. “You’re gonna spoil all the fun.”

  
  
  
  


They’re awfully lucky, that Simone’s so tall, and Brian’s so flexible. No stepstools required. Everyone lines up _relatively_ tidy, and then Simone signals Pat to pause. She is a master of suspense, and she wants to enjoy Brian’s exhausted, anticipatory trembling.

“Look at him shake, daddy,” she gestures, and even the line of her hand is wicked, tipped with dark blue nails. “He’s so hungry for it. Dyou think he wants your cock or mine first? Or both at the same time.”

Pat holds up Brian’s chin. He’s tense, a little. Nervous. Very excited. Very fucking tired. His hair is spilling over his face in sloppy curls. Pat brushes it back behind his ears. The kid’s not going to collapse, Pat doesn’t think. It’s just a question of how long he wants to be fucked, and how brutally, before he wants Pat to come.

“What do you want, Bri,” Pat asks, and lets his voice be low. “How do you want this to go?”

“You’ll like watching Simone fuck me,” Brian says, only a little strained, because of the way Pat’s fingers are tilting his chin. “Let her start. Join in when you feel like it.”

Kid’s really going for it. “You’re gonna have so much to brag about,” Pat murmurs. “All right, Simone. That’s a go for you.”

“Goody-good,” she grins, and starts to slide herself in. It’s interesting, as always, to watch Brian’s face shift to deal with the sensation. It’s gotta be rough, on his knees, because he’s trying hard not to move much, and with Pat’s hand forcing his chin up he’s even more restricted. But Simone isn’t gentle. She moves pretty quick, in and out, and though they’ve done a little work the kid still gasps and moans on occasion, when she hits something just wrong or just right.

It’s devastating, watching them. Brian is fighting _so hard_ to even stay upright. Maybe Pat was wrong, about the collapsing. Maybe Simone’s going to jerk so hard into his ass that he whimpers and falls to the blankets, moaning in anguished pleasure. Maybe Brian will start to beg, soon, for relief, and Pat can shut him up with his cock.

Brian’s gaze is distant, but he collects it with effort, focuses it on Pat’s face. Licks his lips. “You gonna play, daddy? Or you just like to watch.” His voice is strained-sultry. He’s not devoid of persuasive power, even now.

“I’ll play, baby,” Pat murmurs. “Just enjoying the show. You already look like a fucked-out whore.”

“Mmm,” Brian closes his eyes, lets Simone’s hips force his chin into Patrick’s hand. “That’s—accurate. If you want I can cry about it.” He opens his eyes, then, dark and taunting. “Or you can fuck my throat. C’mon.”

“Here you are then, baby boy,” Pat obliges, feeding Brian his cock.

For a few moments, Pat doesn’t move at all, just lets Brian attempt to suck with the jerking motions into his ass. It’s plenty pleasant, all on its own, the feeling of lips and tongue and accidental teeth shook loose by Simone’s fierce thrusts.

Eventually he’s too excited to be patient, though, and Brian’s too composed, and he starts to jerk. It’s interesting, he thinks, to decide whether to work in unison or at odds. If they thrust at the same pace, Brian whimpers and squeaks with sudden fullness. If they take turns, thrust-pause-thrust-pause in opposite synchrony, the pace is relentless and the boy never gets a break.

He glances up at Simone. She’s blissfully happy, but also watching him very hard. She’s trying to decide what Patrick wants most. He doesn’t know, but he trusts her. He lets her pick.

It’s fucking obscene, to feel Brians’ throat forced up against his cock. Pat curls his hands in Brian’s hair, not pulling, just feeling. He can’t last long, not like this. It’s too fucking good. He can’t tell Simone he’s going to come, and he can’t tell Brian, and what does it matter, because Brian can’t do a damn thing about it anyway.

He chokes it back, once. Not yet, not yet. He wants to savor it. How wild and happy Simone is, with her dick in Brian’s ass. Brian’s limp, exhausted tears and his eyes that are squeezed tight with effort. All this, for Pat.

It’s such a shame, that it has to end, but it _must,_ it must. Great god of heaven, say Amen to all.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“You did so good baby,” Simone coos, as she jerks Brian off. Her smooth, slim fingers work their way around him as Pat holds him in his lap. He’s inarticulate, for the most part, squirming mass of pleasure and pain. It doesn’t take long. Poor kid’s been fucking waiting all day.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Pat wants to get a verbal confirmation that Brian’s okay, but he’s already asleep, so that’s all right.

“You have a good time?” Simone whispers, gentle, in his ear. Her hands are touching Brian, but Pat can feel her tenderness.

“I did,” Pat breathes softly. “I like to play the villain.”

“No _duh_ ,” Simone retorts, almost too loud. “Thanks for humoring him. I think he’ll feel better now, about pushing you so hard. Now that he’s made it up to you.”

“Yeah. You know it would have been _fine_ , even if he hadn’t?”

A snort. Too loud. Brian stirs. Then resettles.

Simone’s voice is apologetically quiet. “Of course, Patty. The kid’s all about plot resolution. Symmetry. You know that.”

“I do,” Pat murmurs. “I think we did okay.”

“It was a fuckin’ _blast_ , either way,” Simone grins. “So good work us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS include  
> \- threesome M/M/F (hi simoooooone),  
> \- anal and oral sex, including spitroasting,  
> \- masochism and pain, including endurance,  
> \- food restriction / missing meals (as a D/s thing)  
> \- lots of general domination vibes, including derogatory language and attempts at humiliation,  
> \- bondage, particularly over-door and thigh cuffs,  
> \- shakespeare. 
> 
>  
> 
> thx billie eilish for writing this chapter with your bizarre self. it was 3/4 you and 1/4 my sophomore shakespeare teacher. srry for immense length i thought it fit the scene.


	29. (among the wildflowers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian loves to dress up. pat has hidden talents. 
> 
>  
> 
> _i could be brown / i could be blue / i could be violet sky_  
>  i could be hurtful / i could be purple / i could be anything you like

In Brian’s private opinion, it is a  _ crime  _

(one that the patriarchy has committed at Brian specifically) 

that Pat doesn’t know how to do makeup. Reason one: Pat’s face was  _ clearly  _ designed by God for eyeliner. He looks so fucking good in it. The man absolutely  _ smolders  _ in a smoky eye. Even just a subtle line of black under his lids looks fucking  _ incredible _ , under the wide round rim of his glasses. The very fact that his lifetime overlaps with the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise is heavenly evidence that Pat was born to wear it. 

Reason two: Brian actually isn’t  _ that  _ great at doing makeup. He tried of course, when he was young

(because you can’t be in dance and  _ not  _ try, there’s only so many things you can do in a greenroom, and after your hands get sore from slapjack and you’ve done all your partner splits warm-ups you start fucking around with whatever’s on hand) 

and he learned the principles, but he never got really  _ good.  _ Not enough opportunity. It isn’t something he’s exercised a lot, either, since childhood—he’s  _ worn  _ makeup, on stage, but people tend to put it on for  __ him, and even at home he had Laura—so his hands are shakier and less confident than he’d like. He’s certainly poked Pat in the eye a couple times, whenever he’s tried. 

Reason three: Pat is actually a  _ natural  _ at it. Brian learned this last Halloween 

( 

“C’mon, it’ll be  _ fun _ ! And you don’t even have to think of a costume really.”

“I’m not very photogenic.” Pat always said silly, nervous,  _ wrong  _ things like that. Brian tried to sympathize. He could vaguely remember being nervous of coming out bad in photos, but he felt strongly that the antidote was to be in as many photos as possible wearing as many  _ absurd  _ things as possible (the sillier the thing, the better) to dilute the effect. 

“You are. And honestly, I don’t think it matters. Like, skull makeup hides a lot of imperfections.”

Pat still looked tentative, but Brian could tell he was considering the appeal. Halloween parties were great fun, and this one promised to be especially exciting, without the pressure of trying to come up with something clever to wear. And if everyone’s in the same costume, give or take, it’s a lot less awkward to wear facepaint. 

Brian pulled out all the wheedling stops, because he really  _ wanted  _ it. “Derry says she needs more guys, too. She’s only got two. And she’s  _ really  _ nice. And her photos are incredible. I’m going, whether you come or not.”

This seemed to decide Pat. Pat _ likes _ Derry, Simone’s photographer-friend, because they bonded once while wallflowering at a party. Derry’s sweet and perky and flighty and funny, and has a great laugh and a beautiful soul, and she invited Pat to visit her art studio and Pat actually went.  _ She does great paintings,  _ Pat said, reverently, when he was telling Brian about it later.  _ Some real Georgia O’Keefe meets Chuck Close shit is going on over there.  _ Brian hadn’t known what that meant (apparently, that they are sort of vaguely evocative of feminine anatomy and deeply intimate but also carrying an undercurrent of alienation—something something, they’re big and colorful) but Pat clearly thought she was a cool broad and so he was willing to help with her annual-party-cum-art-project. 

The parameters were simple: let me take photographs of you in Dia de los Muertos sugar-skull makeup, and I’ll provide the drinks and the snacks and the venue for a rollicking good Halloween party. A perfect deal, in Brian’s opinion, because he didn’t have to think himself into a tizzy with costuming but he still got to be  _ dramatic.  _

He didn’t tell Pat until the day before, though, that they had to do their makeup for themselves. 

“Fucking  _ hell _ , Brian, I thought we just came and Derry did it for us.”

“I don’t think she’s got time, Pat. I think she’s focusing on lighting and angles and stuff. We don’t have to get anything special. She says she has lots of facepaint. We just show up early and do it.”

Pat screwed up his face. “Dyou think I can con someone into doing mine for me?”

“I’ll do yours if you do mine,” Brian said immediately. “It’ll be way easier.”

Brian thought Pat would reject this idea outright, but instead he laughed and just said, “Oh good, that way if I fuck up it’s only  _ you  _ that looks stupid.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


They showed up early and Derry greeted them with enthusiasm. 

“Oh my god guys  _ thank you so much _ ,” she gushed. “And Patrick especially— _ thank you _ —I like, loved the ones last year with the guys with beards. It’s so dramatic. Thank you for doing this.”

“Our pleasure, Derry,” Pat dipped his head, nervous but pleased. Brian just grinned. Pat had been self-conscious, about the scruff, but Brian had talked him down from trimming it. 

“I have like, infinite props and costumes and stuff,” Derry gestured. “And you can pick out your own or I can do it. And the makeup’s over there. You can get one of the girls to do yours or do your own.”

Derry flitted away to welcome more newcomers. Brian rocked on the balls of his feet, nervous. “Do you want a girl to do yours? I don’t have to.”

Pat shrugged. “Only if you want. I trust you.”

As always, these words brought a little thrill to Brian’s heart. They situated themselves in a private corner with a case of cheap facepaint, as directed. The first part was easy. White facepaint everywhere. Black circles around the eyes. Black triangle over the nose. Brian knew he didn’t have a  _ particularly  _ steady hand, but this he could do. 

“Stubble causing a problem?” Pat asked, self-consciously. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Brian assured. “I just have to dab more. You heard what Derry said.”

It was exciting, to Brian, dabbing the dark facepaint around Pat’s eyes, red-rimmed and patient. When he closed his lids and Brian finished, the effect was strikingly eerie: just wide black holes. Pat refused to pick out a model for Brian to copy, so Brian chose his own, something that he liked but that looked simple. He made Pat hold up the phone for him, so he could refer to it without too much juggling. 

He traced around the eye-circles with dots of turquoise, flicking it across his cheeks and forehead. The stubble really  _ was  _ fine (a little blotchy, but no problem) because the white covered most of it. 

Brian had a shaky hand with the black as he drew the mouth—a sort of dark Glasgow smile over Pat’s white lips, with perpendicular lines to suggest teeth—but the shakiness fit the style. He was fairly pleased, when he finished. Pleased enough to embellish a little, with a small red rose on Pat’s forehead and turquoise petals. Pat looked good. Gothic. Dangerous. 

He let Pat see the mirror and Pat smiled in approval. “I like it, Bri. Very dramatic. Also excellent for fooling facial recognition software.”

“Now do me!” Brian said eagerly, and Pat made that nervous face.  

“I’m only doing half for you,” Pat said immediately. “Because Derry said we could. And then I don’t have to make it symmetric.”

Brian nodded, eagerly, because the fact that Pat was willing to do this at all surprised him. He didn’t get the option, to pick his own image (not that he would have known what to pick?) and so he had to tolerate Pat scrolling through google images for a long time, deciding on inspiration. 

“Got it,” Pat said, eventually, and put his phone back in his pocket. Brian raised an eyebrow. Bold. 

“I think you do the white first?” Brian said, when Pat reached for black, but Pat just waved him off. 

“Either I’m gonna fuck it up or I’m not. You’ve already decided to let me, so deal with my mistakes.”

Brian shut up, then, and let Pat do what he wanted. It surprised him, the black paint on his chin, up his cheek, to start. Pat must be carving out a more skull-like profile. 

It felt good, Pat’s close attention. He took a lot longer than Brian had, even just filling in colors. Deliberate. Careful. Brian preened a bit at being examined so closely. 

“Stay still, kid,” Pat warned, as he drew a white line down the middle of Brian’s face, separating the land of the living from that of the dead. 

Brian hadn’t known what he was doing, for most of it, when he switched from black to white to black again, and then to red. He’d been surprised by the red on his lips—on the living side, that is—and equally surprised by the careful, repeated applications of red to the rims of his eye. 

“This is hard to blend,” Pat had explained, after the third time. “Sorry it’s taking forever.”

Brian also felt him add a few mysterious embellishments to Brian’s cheeks. 

“She’s got a rosary over there in costumes,” Pat muttered, while he was doing something on Brian’s cheek in black eyeliner. “You should wear it. Or hold it. It’ll suit yours better. It’s red.”

Brian demanded to see his, of course, but when Pat snapped a quick blurry photo and showed it to him, Brian was shocked. Pat had done—well, an  _ amazing  _ job. The left side of Brian’s face was  _ hauntingly  _ skull-like, with lines of black under his cheekbones and soft curving lines of contrast. The pop of bright red lining his eyes faded into the black circles, and his lips that were white and dead on the left side were vibrant red and full on the right. On his right cheek, Pat had added a tiny heart in red—on his left, on the white paint, a tiny cross in black. 

“This is beautiful,” Brian breathed. He felt—well, like a character in a play, someone who was straddling the boundary between life and death. 

“I did half as much in twice the time,” Pat shrugged. “Let’s go get in line for pictures, so we can drink.”

Brian let Pat tug him into line, and let Pat talk him into picking props as well from Derry’s selection. Pat wanted to tuck a red rose in his ear, so he obliged. He accepted the rosary, too, and promised to clutch it pensively in at least one of the pictures. When it was his turn, he also bit the stem of the rose dramatically, in case Derry wanted kind of a tango thing. 

Brian didn’t have any equally artistic visions for Pat, so he let Derry select her choices. She chose a top hat and a blazer, and just let Pat put a hand on it, tilting it, and looking up through his lashes at the camera. A few shots, and she was done. 

“Oh, you’re easy, Patrick! I think I have it. Do you want anything else?”

Pat didn’t, so they linked hands again, Brian and Pat, and headed off for beverages and refreshments and partying amid the other skull-people in Derry’s beautiful little balcony apartment. 

When they got the prints back, a month later—Derry was a fucking  _ great human,  _ so everyone got a full-color full-size glossy print—Brian had been astounded by both. Firstly, Pat looks  _ great  _ in makeup, of course, no matter how inexpertly applied, especially when it has that gothic flair. 

But secondly, Brian  _ loved  _ to look at Patrick’s delicate handiwork. 

“You can really fucking draw, can’t you,” Brian said, looking at the contours of skull-bones around his cheeks. “What the hell. This looks  _ amazing _ .”

“Remember, I didn’t have to make it symmetric,” Pat dips his chin. 

“That’s even better,” Brian says. He’s got a lot of picture of himself, in  _ lots  _ of costumes, but he already thinks this might be his favorite. Himself, straddling the line between life and death, and looking fucking  _ sexy  _ in both. 

)

 

last Halloween, Brian learned that Pat has a  _ great  _ hand and an artist’s eye, so it’s a damn shame he has no makeup training. 

“You should doll me up,” Brian encourages, at every opportunity. “You’re gonna be amazing at it. Think how cute I’ll look.”

Pat often blushes and turns him away, at that request. Brian knows why. Pat likes Brian in a skirt for many reasons, but one of them is that he finds it erotically transgressive and he’s not entirely comfortable with what that implies about his beliefs about masculinity. They spend a few drunken nights talking it out. 

“Why don’t you want to, again?”

“Because, Bri,” Pat slurs, “men wearing lipstick shouldn’t be  _ weird _ . It should just be  _ normal _ . Or it shouldn’t be normal for anyone. Or whatever the fuck. I don’t know. I’m just a fucking prude.”

“I think women wear lipstick to be sexy sometimes?” Brian tries. “So why can’t you put it on me?” 

Pat throws his hair back. “You don’t understand. It’s sexy to me  _ because  _ it’s feminine. Because feminizing you is humiliating. That’s fucked up.”

Brian shrugs. “Dyou have to think that hard? Or can you just make me pretty and ask hard questions later?”

“Oh my god,” Pat grins, drunkenly, but not perhaps as drunk as Brian. “You don’t give a fuck about my gender norms, do you. You just wanna look pretty. And you think I’m better at it than you.”

Brian blushes right down to his toes, and Pat laughs hard at him and also kisses him. 

“Okay, that I can get behind. But we gotta wait until we have the right scene. I’m not doin this shit for nothing. I need motivation.”

  
  


> **pat (4:09:03) - @random hey does anyone have old makeup that they want to get rid of?**
> 
> **pat (4:09:34) - frankly i don’t even know if that’s a thing that people would have i am just kind of floored by how much it costs to get into this shit and seeking alternatives**
> 
> **tara (4:10:34) - If it’s for a video, Pat, just expense it. Just stick w/in budget please or submit a req**
> 
> **pat (4:11:01) - not for a video**
> 
> **pat (4:11:05) - fuck the patriarchy**
> 
> **simone (4:11:30) - hell yeahhhhhhhh get em**
> 
> **tara (4:11:57) - Oh well carry on then.**
> 
> **tara (4:12:02) - I have some concealer i hate that you can have. I’ll bring a few things**
> 
> **tara (4:12:05) - All things that I hate, to be clear.**
> 
> **jenna (4:12:05) - word i have so many eye shadow colors im sick of**
> 
> **tara (4:12:08) - Only the best for you.**
> 
> **jenna (4:12:10) - also if you buy me dinner ill teach you how i do eyeliner fwiw**
> 
> **(** 💄 **4)**
> 
> **simone (4:12:45) - ME TOO OH MY GOD YES GURLZ NITE**
> 
> **pat (4:14:40) - does pizza count as dinner**
> 
> **(** 🍕 **4)**
> 
> **allegra (4:16:12) - pizza is acceptable if we get to practice on you goth boy**
> 
> **pat (4:16:14) - go for it emo chick**
> 
> **pat (4:16:20) - id love to maintain creative control of my social media visage though please.**
> 
> **ashley (4:17:01) - NO SOCIAL GOD lets just all pretend twitter doesnt exist for a night**
> 
> **ashley (4:17:23) - also i fucking suck at makeup but i am really great at eating pizza**
> 
> **simone (4:17:30) - lies and deceit**
> 
> **ashley (4:17:36) - also we should get julia**
> 
> **pat (4:17:30) - pizza eaters also welcome**
> 
> **bdg (4:17:57) - am i invited**
> 
> **simone (4:18:01) - @bdg that was a gender-nonspecific use of GURLZ**
> 
> **tara (4:18:12) - Recommend buying your own mascara, kids. We cant afford an office pinkeye epidemic this month**
> 
> **pat (4:18:20) - you got it boss**
> 
> **bdg (4:18:24) - PATRICK AM I INVITED**
> 
> **jenna (4:18:30) - lol**
> 
> **pat (4:18:30) - yes brian.**
> 
> **pat (4:18:32) - but youre stuck buying the alcohol**
> 
> **bdg (4:18:37) - why me?!?**
> 
> **pat (4:18:41) - food, booze, or looks no one gets in for free**
> 
> **(** 💄 **4)(** 🍕 **1)**
> 
> **bdg (4:18:49) - ugh fine** 🍸

  
  
  
  


It’ll be a few months before they find the right excuse to use their new skills, but until then Brian has a lot of memories to hold close to his heart. Glitter. Blue lipstick. Baby’s first contouring lesson. Jenna knows how to do drag makeup, at least a little bit, and Julia knows how to make everyone look dark and dangerous. Ashley can do an anime eye, and Simone is a big believer in bold lip colors. Patrick does indeed look  _ exquisite  _ in makeup of any kind, although Brian finds he & the girls prefer 

(and Pat is least embarrassed by ) 

what he already knew he’d like on Pat anyway: understated goth eyeliner mmmmmmhmmmm. 

Brian loves sparkles on himself, though, and he also loves watching Pat unwind from that tight curl of tension as his grimace shifts from  _ oh god how did i let myself get roped into this  _ into  _ well this is tolerable.  _ As expected, Pat has a steadier hand than Brian does 

(dear lord, how do you not poke yourself in the eye  _ constantly _ )  

but the girls are much steadier yet, and letting them try different bold looks on Brian while Pat hangs back and makes drinks and occasional amused comments twangs the cords of Brian’s little attention-loving heart. Their favorite is a what Jenna refers to as “witchkin-chic,” and Brian’s favorite is the one that makes him feel like Cruella DeVille but Pat’s favorite 

(which he doesn’t admit until everyone is long gone) 

is just fake freckles and light mascara and a brush of rouge across his nose and cheeks, that casual pink-nosed summer innocence look. 

“It is disgusting how appealing I find this,” Pat murmurs, tipping his chin up.

“Why?” Brian asks innocently, and scrunches his nose.

“Dear lord, kid, you can’t  _ do  _ this to me.” Pat moans, in that way he does which means 

( _ do that again baby boy give me some sugar _ )

something quite different. 

Brian bites his lip nervously, and widens his eyes, as if he really can’t imagine what Pat is so bothered about but he’s so, so, sorry. 

“Tell me what I’m doing wrong, daddy. I wanna be good for you.” 

The mascara is, as promised, waterproof.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for: not really a lot, except fluff, exploration of how subverting gender norms is sexy sometimes and just fun sometimes, and leaning really hard into that daddy kink riiiiight at the end there.


	30. - star -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat's on vacation. brian shares a piece of himself. 
> 
>  
> 
> _in my mind and in my car / we can't rewind we've gone too far / pictures came and broke your heart / put down the blame on VCR_

It’s Pat’s fault, really. He started it. He’s out of the country for ten days—first for work and then for fun—but before he leaves he gets one of those _thoughts_.

He dares himself to ask in the brisk morning walk to the subway, hands in his pockets.

“Hey Bri. When I’m gone, are you gonna sext me again?”

Brian turns—kid’s always a half-step ahead—with a glint in his eye. “Would you like that, daddy?”

Pat considers taking up birdwatching.

“I can skype you, if you want.” Brian’s touching him now, traced back two steps, arm around his waist, _demanding_ attention. “Like before.”

“I’d love it, but I’ve got a roommate, kid.”

Brian sighs theatrically. “Shame. I can sext you, though, sure. Just tell me what times of day are convenient.”

“So you can make sure you avoid those, no doubt.”

That wink.

  
  
  


They’re standing on the platform, Brian shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, impatient even for the few seconds it takes for the train to get here. It’s noisy and friday-commute-crowded, but oddly Pat sometimes feels more private in places like this. Even if someone overhears, what do they care? Amid the noise, the world is quiet.

“Um. Bri. Besides texting.” Pat pauses—

—his question can wait until the screeching gets louder. “Would you consider pics?”

Brian gives him a side-eye, a little glint, but it’s too noisy for him to respond at anything less than a yell, now. They bustle on the train. Stand. They’re close to everyone, and everything is pleasantly, familiarly uncomfortable, and Pat is fairly sure he’s safe from Brian’s response, but oh—

the kid sidles, and he’s closer than close—

and his whispery breath is in the shell of Pat’s ear.

“I’ll send you dirty photos, daddy, but you have to tell me exactly what part of me you want to see.”

Pat ponders if there is an indoor _equivalent_ to birdwatching.

  
  
  


Of course, Brian is very good at dirty pictures. Kid’s a superstar at most things, but especially things that involve being nerdy about aesthetics and on camera and also wildly shameless.

Brian demands a tit-for-tat, and Pat acquiesces. It’s only fair—albeit terrifying.

The kid is nice to him, though. He doesn’t demand dick pics. In fact, he just wants shots that are pretty clean. Things that Pat could put on his instagram, if he were so inclined. Pat’s face, mostly, with his arms or his neck. Often, just a picture of what Pat’s wearing that day in the mirror.

The kid DPs a little, asking for certain angles—it should be annoying, but it’s actually sort of _nice_ . Sending pictures and getting back little snatches of advice: _ooh that shirt’s good_ or _your hair’s sexy today papi_ or _turn off that light it’s too yellow._ Eventually, Pat gets it right. The kid tells him which one’s he’s allowed to use on social, and which ones are just for Brian.

 

> **ok but what do *you* want to see**
> 
> **Any part of you kid I’m not picky**
> 
> **that is a bullshit answer patrick** **  
> ****you tell me what you want or else** **  
> ** **i am going to send you pictures of only my toes for a week and a half**
> 
> **Well** **  
> ****Not what i was expecting** **  
> ** **But I could probably get into it** **  
> ** **Knowing you**
> 
> **sounds like a dare ahahaha**

So the first day’s pictures are all toes. There are three, actually, and they are enumerated, and Brian must have them out of chronological order because the first one is him polishing his toenails dark red, and in the next his toes are bare of polish.

The second’s a cute dramatic shot, taken from the floor, just of the kid’s tip-toes as he balances. Dancerly. It makes Pat smile.

The third picture is Brian’s bare feet, hanging off the mattress, ropes bound loose around his ankles, and Pat can tell, just from the picture, that he’s squirming. Fucking _hell._

 

> **so which is your favorite you dirty old man** **  
> ** **A or B or C**
> 
> **Sweet jesus kid you know**
> 
> **lol** **  
> ****ok seriously tho im tapped out on feet stuff** **  
> ** **what body part tomorrow**
> 
> **I’m tempted to say elbows just to see what you do**
> 
> **please no more challenges** **  
> ** **i cant make like armpits sexy** **  
> ** **well maybe but like give me an easy one to start okay**
> 
> **Go with hands**
> 
> **u got it**

The three pics come in over the course of the day, every day. Pat feels guilty and filthy and absolutely outclassed, but not enough to make it _stop_ . They’re fucking _stellar_. Sometimes the picture is crisp and clean and perfect, but a lot of times it’s delightfully blurry and unabashedly artistic. Brian is so good at catching these little pieces, these moments of emotion. Theater kids, man.

A - a shot of Brian’s hand holding the back of his neck, like he does when he’s shy or pretending to be. Pat can’t see the sheepish grin, but he knows it would be there, sprawling across the kid’s face.

B - a black-and-white picture of Brian’s pale hand, wrist resting on the edge of his desk, loosely dangling a length of dark rope from his fingertips.

C - a blurry, frantic photo with a pinkish tint, of Brian’s fist gripping the sheets.

 

> **You don’t have to do all this work** **  
> ****I mean its fucking appreciated** **  
> ****But you dont have to stress about modeling** **  
> ** **I would just accept bathroom mirror selfies**
> 
> **i like doing it this way**
> 
> **You’re fucking good at it** **  
> ****Theres no denying** **  
> ** **I think im going to take up scrapbooking**
> 
> **lol** **  
> ****you have to tell me which one you jerked off to thats the deal** **  
> ** **A or B or C**
> 
> **C again which you well know** **  
> ****But I stared at A for a very long time first** **  
> ****It reminds me of you** **  
> ** **Pretending to be innocent**
> 
> **aww** **  
> ****what do you want to see next?** **  
> ** **dont say o just anything** **  
> ** **that is not helpful**

Pat is a simple man. Mouth, ass, hips, nipples. Pat wants to see fading bruises and reddened lips. He likes the pics that are a bit messy. It makes him feel wildly undeserving, to think of Brian sitting at home, pondering these little sexy triptychs for him. They always have a perfect buildup.

One, Brian’s face, selfie angle, looking up flirty-innocent through his eyelashes. Just barely in frame, his bare shoulders. He’s got a _flower_ in his hair.

Two, close up, darker, pupils wide. Brian’s looking at something, just above and to the left, and his mouth is open like he’s just started to talk, or maybe just started to open it for something else.

Three, head hanging, sloppy hair obscuring most of his face, covering his eyes and ears. The photo’s almost overexposed, uncareful, the contrast on the white wall makes the colors pop, especially the bright red hint of ball gag just barely visible in Brian’s mouth

It’s _always fucking C_ how does the kid know him so well.

 

> **good?**
> 
> **Fucking hell you know its good**
> 
> **you liked that one huh**
> 
> **I like all of them kid** **  
> ****That one just makes me ache** **  
> ** **You know how i get**
> 
> **dont like the idea of me playing without you?**
> 
> **Yeah** **  
> ** **It hurts pretty good though**
> 
> **jealous bastard <3 ** **  
> ****should i go harder on that?** **  
> ** **make you jerk off thinking of someone else touching me while youre gone**
> 
> **It’s hard for me to say no to that**
> 
> **how you want this staged** **  
> ** **no wait nvm nvm** **  
> ** **got some ideas**

Bri’s first pic comes in on its own, the next day. He’s not above that, teasing them out, even over the whole day.

First one, Simone’s hand on his wrist. Fingers just lightly resting on it. He’s at the office. She’s probably leaning over his computer, letting her hand trace up the inside of his arm. Soft, intimate, and familiar.

Second one, a hand on Brian’s shoulder. Hard to tell where this one was taken. He can’t tell whose hand, either, except that it’s not Simone’s and it’s not Brian’s. It wouldn’t be anything unusual, except for the context—it’s friendly. But something about it jerks that little feeling of jealousy in Pat’s heart.

The third picture—

doesn’t come, actually. Pat waits up for it. It’s silly to do, but—

he’s a little _excited_ and a little _afraid_ of what it might be. Of what Brian’s decided—

or _who_ he’s roped in—

to his strange little game, all in the name of pushing Pat’s buttons.  

But then, it’s past midnight, and no picture. Pat wonders if maybe it’s on purpose. Maybe he’s supposed to be hard and sitting up late, dangling for Brian’s enjoyment. Still, he can’t resist asking.

 

> **You teasing me baby boy** **  
> ****Or is it just a pair today** **  
> ****Id hate to miss the chance for a fair and balanced review** **  
> ****Or I can wait if you like** **  
> ****For the last one** **  
> ** **Ill wait however long you like.**
> 
> **just two today** **  
> ****sorry** **  
> ****no need to wait** **  
> ** **ill do a better set tomorrow**
> 
> **Hey** **  
> ****You okay kid** **  
> ** **Something up**
> 
> **just work**
> 
> **Want to talk about it?** **  
> ** **I can call**
> 
> **no im tired** **  
> ****and its late for you** **  
> ****just enjoy yourself <3 ** **  
> ** **i promise ill do better tomorrow**
> 
> **Kid you dont have to** **  
> ** **Do better**
> 
> **sorry**
> 
> **Why are you apologizing** **  
> ** **What is up**
> 
> **nothing pat im fine**
> 
> **Are you sure**
> 
> **just go jerk off please**
> 
> **Youre not fine**
> 
> **if you keep talking to me** **  
> ** **ill ruin it**
> 
> **Im calling** **  
> ****Give me a second to get outside** **  
>   
>  **

 

“You’re crying.”

“I’m really not.”

“You were. I can hear it, Bri.”

“I’m _not_ crying, Pat. What do you need?”

“Baby boy, what were you crying about. Tell me. Please. Whatever it is. Did something happen at work? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just stressed.”

“What’re you stressed about.”

“It’ll stress me out _more_ to talk about it.”

“That’s not like you, Bri.”

“Don’t, Patrick.”

“Don’t _what_ , Brian.”

“Push me on this. I’m _not_ going to tell you. I’ll hang up first.”

“Jesus, Brian, what the fuck _happened_.”

“...”

  
  


The kid hangs up, and won’t answer again, so eventually Pat goes to sleep with a hole in his stomach.

  
  
  


The next morning Pat wakes up to a flurry of apology texts.

 

> **im so sorry pat** **  
> ****for being a whiny bitch** **  
> ****last night** **  
> ****i was just worked up about a stupid thing on a work thing. couldn’t get the edit right all day. lost track of time and didn’t take a third pic and was mad at myself.** **  
> ****sorry for taking it out on you** **  
> ** **i hope i didnt wreck your night**
> 
> **heres all of todays pictures** **  
> ** **and heres the one from yesterday i owe you**
> 
> **and again im so sorry for being a brat**

Today’s pics are all the same lighting, same room. Brian probably took them at the same time. One of a collar around his throat. One of a rope cutting into his upper arm. One of his face, tear-stained, stinging bright red with a slap. The last one, a hand in his hair, gripping his curls hard.

Pat’s heart churns to look at them, because something doesn’t feel _right_ . Not about the story, not about the pictures. They’re beautiful, of course—because Brian’s beautiful, and his mind is beautiful—but they’re not ordered to build to a climax and those tears don’t look _fake._

 

> **Brian** **  
> ****Stop with the apologies** **  
> ****You didn’t do anything wrong** **  
> ****And you don’t owe me anything** **  
> ****But no more slapping yourself please** **  
> ****Actually no more pictures** **  
> ****Ive decided** **  
> ****Ill see you in two days anyway** **  
> ** **I can just wait for the real thing**
> 
> **no please** **  
> ** **im sorry i fucked up**
> 
> **Can I *please* call**
> 
> **no im at work**
> 
> **Okay** **  
> ****Call when you feel like it after work** **  
> ****And don’t stress yourself more by thinking about doing shit for me** **  
> ** **Just focus on work and try to relax**
> 
> **okay** **  
> ** **thank you** **  
> ** **i love you**
> 
> **Love you too kid**

Brian calls that night, and he sounds pretty much normal. He complains about work—but it doesn’t really sound like his heart is in it—he’s rather talk about JoJo and how Pat missed out on Clayton’s last game night and there’s a new improv board game where you have to pitch silicon valley startups and Brian was sad because there was no Pat to laugh at his in-jokes.

The next day’s call is normal, too. For the second day in a row, Pat decides not to push—

because if Brian hangs up then what can he do?—

and instead of talking about it, they stick to normal things. Neither send any pictures. Neither makes any comment about not taking pictures. Pat considers a quick selfie to send, maybe it’ll cheer the kid up to see his ugly mug—but decides against it.  He can’t put pressure on right now. He needs to figure out what’s wrong. It’s not _work_ , for fuck’s sake, Pat knows at least that much. It’s probably something Pat’s done. He just isn’t sure what, exactly.

  
  
  


Unfortunately, Pat’s flight gets in really late, and he doesn’t have time or space or energy to say anything right away—he just throws a tired arm around Brian and tells him he’s fucking beautiful and perfect and kisses him hard and careless. Brian squeaks and hugs and tries to take Pat’s suitcase, which Pat refuses, even though it’s just a carry-on and it’s not like it’s _heavy_.

There’s no _time_ to prod further, not in the race to get to bed, because Brian gets strangely jittery whenever they are separated for too long, and the remedy is to touch their bodies to each other and confirm for the umpteenth time that they fit together perfectly and that everything is as it should be.

  
  
  
  


The next day Brian’s all smiles, bouncing around the office with cheery glee and unrestricted affection. They aren’t _demonstrative_ at work, or try not to be, but since they stopped trying to be so secretive Brian’s really opened up his body language in a million tiny little ways that Pat didn’t know he was holding onto before. Pat didn’t realize that Brian never sat directly across from him, at conference tables. That Brian crossed his arms when they talked, or folded them behind his back, or grabbed his neck, instead of gesticulating freely. That Brian’s been calculating exactly how to dip into and out of Pat’s personal space—frequent, but sheepish—like he’s telling a story that New Kid Brian is overly touchy and Producer Pat hates it—like Brian’s getting halfway through the motion and then _remembering himself_ and trying to stifle his weirdness and be a good friend.

God, it’s good to see the kid move around him easily these days. To _look_ at him. To throw off flirty jokes and follow them up with a grin instead of a grimace.

Pat forgets sometimes that Brian’s heart is delicate, too.

  
  
  
  
  


“Y’wanna go out for drinks with the crew?” Brian asks, while he’s shoving his stuff in his bag.

“Mmm,” Pat doesn’t want to, no. He’s got a travel hangover, and he wants to get Brian alone. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go. You should come,” Brian smiles, and the smile is totally natural, but Pat still feels like something is off. “I hear this place is fun. Has really good pie. C’mon, don’t make me be my own date. I mean, I will if I have to, but Simone’ll make fun of me.”

The tone is very pushy, even for Brian. Something is off. Pat calls the bluff.

“Sorry, too worn out. Go have fun, kid. I’m just gonna spend the night in and try to get my sleep schedule fixed.”

“Okay,” Brian shrugs, and Pat turns away while the group of coworkers gather their things and head out, laughing, to the elevators. Pat gives Brian a wave on his way out.

  
  
  
  


About three minutes later, fingertips land on Pat’s shoulder, and he _jumps_.  

“Sorry,” Brian apologizes instantly. “Wasn’t trying to sneak up.”

“No problem,” Pat pulls off his earphones. “What’s up? Lose your key?”

“No, I just—” Brian coughs, and drops his voice a bit. “I just felt bad. For being selfish. You’ve been gone for like two weeks. If you want to be home I should be there.”

“Brian,” Pat grabs his hand and pets it. “Relax, okay? You can go if you want, or not. If you stay, I’m just gonna want to watch a movie and cuddle. And probably talk about what upset you. Would that be all right?”

Brian makes a face. “That’s what I was afraid of. You played me. You’re tricky.”

“I learned from the best,” Pat smiles, despite himself. “But really, you can go out. I’m patient.”

“Nah let’s bandaid off this shit,” Brian nods to himself firmly. “I pick the movie though.”

“Sure thing.”

  
  
  
  
  


Brian knows all the words to all the songs in every Disney movie, as far as Pat can tell. He also always cries at the end, at least a little. Recreational crying is one of Brian’s things.

“You’re right,” Pat says over the credits, stroking Brian’s hair. “I could probably do evil lusty judge. Who would you play? A gargoyle? Esmeralda?”

“Clopin, I think,” Brian smiles. “Best costume.”

“You’d fit right in with the acrobatics, but I don’t think I’d believe you’d hang the protagonist.”  

“Don’t typecast me,” Brian scowls. “Trust me. I can do mean. You should see me in Little Shop.”

“Hmm,” Pat tips up his chin, considering. “You’re attempting to distract me.”

“Maybe,” Brian says, sneaky-innocent in his plotting, forlorn-pleased at getting called out.

“You can’t distract me from asking what’s wrong, baby boy.” Pat tables his ulterior motives for the moment and focuses on the citerior goal of _helping Brian fuck his brains out so right_ . He’s never been averse to multitasking. “But I _would_ like to see you be mean.”

Brian grins brilliantly. “Let me do it. I’d like that. What kind of mean do you want?”

“You know me, kid. I’m game to try anything.”

“C’mon,” Brian’s forehead creases a little, grin fading. “I need more help than that. I’m not as practiced as you. Pick something that you think I can do.”

Pat nods, kisses him. Really, his teasing is unfair. He knows the kid can act. He should be able to handily pull off several variants of nasty—Pat’s a sort of connoisseur of nastiness, because he often needs to find it in himself—he rolls a few different flavors around in his brain—

it’s hard to ask, though. Hard to crystallize exactly what’s fun about being mean, and offer it to the kid to see what he might like to adorn himself with, one day.

Does Brian also have a dormant well of dark teenage anger, unjust, unreasonable, a rage that would break your best friend’s nose if you let it?

Would Brian enjoy pressing his thumbs into Pat’s bruises with detached fascination, intoxicated by being so intimately adjacent to pain without experiencing its reality?

Does Brian ever watch a movie and when the protagonist is caught in _his darkest hour_ and all the hope drains out of his face because he knows the worst is inevitable...is that ever kind of a turn on?

“This is a lot of thinking,” Brian says nervously. “Am I that tricky to cast.”

“No, I just…it’s really abstract. When I do it. Just I uh. Words aren’t my thing here.”

“Then give me something concrete. A reference point. Disney villain?”

A tendril of an idea wends its way into Pat’s mind. It’s humiliating, and probably far too vain, but at least it’s concrete. “I’ve got something, but God, it’s embarrassing. And I’m afraid it’ll upset you.”

“That’s the ticket,” Brian grins. “Spit it out.”

“When you got the story out of me. About Gus.” He breathes out. Goddamn. Why is this _still_ hard.

Brian’s face gets rather serious, but he’s not afraid. “Uh-huh.”

“It was great. You were really…amazing. In a lot of ways. Mostly not sexy ones but. Uh. There were one or two moments…”

“Sexy moments?”

“Yeah.” Pat sighs. “I’d rather it not be childhood memories again, but it kinda thrills my dick when you’ve got a plan to rip confessions out of me, okay? You’ve got a real deliberate supervillain energy.”

Brian’s eyes are alight. “Oh I would _love_ that. Some spy novel shit. You know I love torturing you, Patrick! It is literally my favorite hobby—why haven’t you said this before.”

“Honestly? Kinda was afraid you’d go too hard. Some of the shit you do for fun is _wild_.”

Brian preens.  “Aw, shucks.”

“I envy your sweet little ass. How it’s so cute and takes so much pounding, I’ll never know.”

Brian laughs. “You’re a dirty old man. It’s not a competition.” He gives a dark little smile. “And even if it were, your ass can stand a _lot_ , Pat. I’ve seen Simone beat the shit out of you harder than she ever does to me.”

Pat eyes him. “Hitting hard, I can take. But you…god only knows what _you’ll_ do. You’re _creative._ ”

“I try,” Brian says lightly, trailing fingers up the nape of Pat’s neck. It gives him goosebumps.

  
  
  


Brian spends the next while asking questions, and making threats, and doing a bit of menacing kissing. It is delightful, and distracting, but eventually Pat refocuses himself.

“So what happened with the pictures, baby boy.”

Brian’s straddling Pat, pinning down his arms, but not hard, just a light weight on the wrists and a squeeze around his hips. It’s pleasant and intimate and doesn’t necessarily need to turn into anything. Brian is just a physical creature. He converses as much through touching as through anything else.

The kid shakes his head, but responds. “It’s dumb. I flipped myself out. It um. Fuck.” A grimace. “I don’t know how to say it without upsetting you.”

“I gotta good poker face. Just say it.”

The eyes examine Pat, as if checking to see if this is true. It is. Pat’s face is neutral, although he’s sure his pupils must be large, because Brian’s hands are on his body.

“All right. It’s stupid. But it’s hard for me to do dirty pics. I guess. They freak me out.”

The weight shifts a little. Brian is inches from his face, examining his reaction. Pat gentles himself, pushes down the urge to feel sickly guilty.

“That’s okay, kid. I can understand that.”

“It’s paranoid,” Brian says, unforgiving, still _staring_. “What is there to be afraid of.”

Pat parries. “You know that when I ask for something you don’t have to say yes, right?”

“I know,” Brian’s gaze flicks away for a second. Regroups. “I didn’t um. know it would be quite _that_ hard. Didn’t know I would flip. I was a little nervous about it. But I wanted to say yes. I trust you.”

Brian had said he wanted to do this fast—

like a bandaid, like bad news, like walking across hot coals—

but Pat feels the urge to put his toe out, tentative, and feel things out with care, even if it means he ends up burned.

“Just to make sure we’re on the same page, kid, when you say you trust me, you mean you trust me to not leak your nudes, right?”

The bare shoulders hitch. That was a sob. A little one. But there. Fingers curl around Pat’s wrists. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Pat soothes. “That’s good, kid. That’s a boundary. That’s _reasonable_.”

Brian doesn’t seem to hear him, though. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know you wouldn’t. I know you’d never ever ever do that even if I dumped you and stole all your credit cards and ran away to Monaco. I just f-freaked out for no reason. It’s not about you.”

As he talks, Brian’s speech gets more breathy, and he starts to shift up, more weight on his hips, pulling away his hands. Pat responds, catches them, entwines the fingers and pulls Brian back down, forward. He may be below Brian, but he has good finger strength. Now they’re both trapped.

“I don’t take that personal, Bri. That’s not a crazy thing to freak out about.” He pauses, contemplates a joke, and decides. “Although I am a _little_ concerned about how developed the Monaco plan is.”

Brian laughs, a bit strangled, but mostly good.

“Do you want me to delete the pictures? Because I can do that. No questions asked. Or even you can do it, if you want. Phone’s in my jacket.”

“No, no,” Brian’s back stiffens. “No, Pat, listen. I trust you. Implicitly. You’d never do that to me. And even if you did—” His back loosens a little, with a snort of self-conscious laughter.  “—I put kind of a lot of work into making sure that none of them were too explicit or publicly identifiable.”

This is true, upon reflection. Each frame was either sexy and wild with very little face, or Brian’s face with some expression that to _Pat_ is obscene, but to anyone else would just be a picture. Clever, clever boy. How hard he twists himself into tortured knots to make Pat’s feverish dreams come true.

“All right. I still can, if you like. I think I’m going to get rid of the one where you’re crying, anyway.”

“They were all _fun_ to take,” Brian leans down with a calmer curve to his spine. He’s nosing along Pat’s hairline. He sounds earnest, between the kisses. “All of them were fun, really. It’s fun to work you up. I like being dramatic. And yeah, I was working within constraints. But I kinda like that.”

“Fucking good job, kid,” Pat tilts his head to the side, letting Brian have whatever he’s looking for, somewhere behind the ear. “I didn’t even realize you had constraints.”

Brian licks behind the earlobe he’s playing with. “You weren’t supposed to. That’s the point.”  

“ _Shit_ ,” Pat sighs in pleasure, as the thrill of Brian’s breath on the nape of his neck starts to fizzle down his spine. He’s about to start losing this one in earnest, if the kid keeps that up. “But… please just… next time tell me if you're uncomfortable. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The little nod into Pat’s hair is reassuring. “I will. I’m sorry I didn’t. I wanted it to not be a big deal.”

“Been there,” Pat admits, staring at their hands as Brian untangles the fingers. The hand he’s looking at moves toward his face, turns his chin forcefully upward as Brian sits back up again on Pat’s stomach. More examination.

“Aren’t you going to push me for backstory.”

Fuck. Of course. Brian is looking at him, oddly vulnerable for how firm his hand is on Pat’s neck. “ _God_ I’m the worst at this,” Pat breathes. “Yes. I want to know why it bothers you. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”

“You don’t have to care,” Brian says, and it’s a little savage, that, but Pat thinks it might be because the kid is just barely holding it together. “If it’s not _interesting_ to you, just let it be.”

“I’m interested, Brian,” Pat says softly, and it’s absolutely true. He’s interested about everything related to this kid, he just is a _moron_ sometimes about how to express it.  “I want to know this.”

“Prove it.” Brian grips.

“How do I—” he can breathe fine, but the pressure in the grip makes him hesitate, anyway. “I want to know. Please. _Please_ tell me what it is.”

Brian is agile, so when he reaches to catch both of Pat’s wrists in the other hand, he doesn’t let any extra weight onto Pat’s windpipe. It just shifts to his knees, and back, and then the other hand is pressing down into the pair of crossed wrists, trying to hold them both at once.

“Please, Bri,” Pat begs. “ _Please_ don’t—don’t keep this from me. I need to know what went wrong. What’s the story. What you feel. Why it bothered you.”

“Not good enough,” Brian growls. “I’m not giving it up for that.”

Pat doesn’t know what he wants. Something more real, maybe. “Please, kid. I’m gonna feel guilty forever if you don’t tell me. And angry at myself. For not having the basic emotional intelligence to figure it out. I should know this about you. I’d _like_ to know it. I _need_ to know it. I’m scared that if you don’t tell me I’ll fuck up again.”

“You didn’t fuck up,” Brian says, slow, and Pat’s starting to be a little dizzy. He doesn’t beg for mercy.

“I’ll take the pass, but I _will_ fuck up one day if you don’t explain what happened. _Please_.”

Brian relents, releases Pat’s throat, and the color leaks back into the world. The kid pushes his hair back from his eyes. “Bad breakup. Ex sent my pics around campus. They were _bad_.” Kid makes it look easy, to say something that breaks Pat’s heart. He’s even smiling. “Absolutely filthy. You know the kinds of things I like done to me.”

Pat hisses. “That _fuck_. That’s fucking malicious.”

“Oh it was quite a fiasco.” Brian’s gaze is a little distant, and Pat decides to push, because that’s what Brian would do. He guesses.

“Were the other students cunts about it?”

“No, no. I doubt most even saw them. I had a really awkward wellness check with an RA, that was the worst of it.”

Brian’s tension is unraveling in the easy press of confession. Kid is so good at confessing. His shoulders shrug and his face is simple and open—intentionally—a face devoid-of-artifice and carefully constructed to be so. Whenever Brian tells you how he feels, he’s so sweet and vulnerable, and it’s so, so clear. that he’s decided being sweet and vulnerable is a good look, for him.

“Most people just thought they were funny. Embarrassing, but I had some funny conversations.” Brian half-grins. “Plus I leaned into it. _Yeah, I fucking like that. At least I’m getting laid._ ”

“I couldn’t’ve pulled that off.” Pat’s tone is too stark, maybe, too honest. He just feels such visceral horror. “I think I would have died of shame.”

“Eh, there are a lot of weird pictures of me,” Brian shrugs. “People can laugh if they want. Or say shit. Or stay out of my way. They can’t make me feel _ashamed_.”

“You’re incredible,” Pat breathes.

“I’m just me.”

“You are _celestial_. You’re so fucking out of my league that you’re a galaxy over.” Pat’s voice is a little rough. “Thanks for coming down to earth, for a second. For me.”

“Thanks for busting out the telescope,” Brian winks, and then his expression softens.

“Really, thanks. Thanks for pushing on this one. It’s not a big deal, really. I don’t even think about it anymore—I didn’t expect it to flip me out like that.”

“Yeah, weird,” Pat says, deadpan. “Bad memories coming up and fucking with you. Can’t say it’s ever happened to me before, but sure sounds like a pain.”

“Asshole,” Brian laughs, and shoves off Pat, lets him go, and falls into bed beside him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for  
> \- dirty pictures / sexting / dick pics, including leaking said pics to the public,  
> \- bondage imagery and discussion of sadism/domination in general,  
> \- bad language, including negative self-talk,  
> \- mentions of bad past relationship,  
> \- communication failure and a character going beyond their limits.
> 
> quite a significant edit on this chapter to fix pacing, srry people who read it already. its a liiiiittle better now. :P


	31. - sing -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gill & gilbert are always at each others' throats. you'd almost think they liked it. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _you're wicked and you're depraved / and you've all misbehaved / if you wanna be saved / well, sing, you sinners_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's for the real nasty fucks see endnotes

 

 

It aches already. And Gilbert hasn’t even _started_ yet.

Pat sighs, shifts the bar on his shoulders. Though these are hardly _comfortable_ accommodations, he’s had worse. It’s a sort of industrial-chic loft, very hip, exposed brick walls and metal pipes on the ceiling but smooth sleek furniture in black leather and a massive TV set into the wall. Very fitting. Exactly the kind of place where a spoiled little despot might hide out, when he has some reason to be in town. There’s nothing unexpected about that.

It _is_ unexpected that Pat’s in the bedroom. The windowless bedroom.

He’s not on the bed, though. He’s _chained_ to the bed, but he’s not _on_ it.

The chain is no trouble. It links to the bar that’s holding his ankles apart. It’s uncomfortable, but painless—the cuffs are padded leather that buckles tight and distributes pressure. Though his legs are spread wide, Pat’s sure that’s mostly to inspire fear, rather than pain. Honestly, the cold is more uncomfortable. Grey stone is very chic, but not great for sitting naked on.

Pat considers trying to get up and pull down a pillow for his bare ass. That would probably annoy Gilbert. He no doubt has a vision of exactly how he wants his prey to look when he finally has the decency to show up. Naked, legs locked wide apart, wrists cuffed to another heavy bar like a yoke. They’re not attached, the bar cutting into Pat’s shoulders and the one at his feet, so in theory he could stand. He’s sure he’ll be made to.

The pillow might not be worth it, though. If he trips, he can’t break his fall with anything except his face or his bony ass—or the bar on his shoulders. A fall on that—its locked to the collar around his neck— might choke him so bad it’d save Gilbert the trouble of killing him. Better to wait.

Pat bends his knees. It offers no protection to his delicate bits, but it feels better, anyway. Less of him touching the cold stone. It’s eerily quiet. He waits, skin tight with gooseflesh, staring at the door.

  
  
  


Eventually, Gilbert emerges, and Pat can’t help but suck in a breath—

_He looks good, if Pat does say so himself. The makeup direction was, quote, like Frank-N-Furter, but toned down ten notches. Classier. Drag queen meets European oligarch. Spoiled brat black sheep rich prince from a country with an ambiguous relationship to due process._

_“I’m not going to lisp, because fuck that,” Brian said, while Pat was sponging out foundation to make him even more pale and flawless-smooth than usual. “But if this were a 90s property I’d be pretty limp-wristed, okay?”_

_Pat worked to spec. He wasn’t clever enough to do fancy contours, but he could darken Brian’s eyebrows and add bold shadow in dark-red-maroon on the eyelids above and below. If ever there were an occasion for liquid eyeliner, this was it, so Pat tried some dark winged cat eyes to modest success. Brian demanded glitter, so he got a spot of bright silver sparkles on his upper lids, right in the center, before Pat handed him the mascara to do for himself._

_“This lipstick shade is called Lady Killer,’ Pat observed with amusement—it’s also maroon and looked quite striking on Brian’s pale face, even before he added the black in the lip corners and blended it in, a gothic two-tone shimmer somewhere between dying roses and dried blood._

_“Fuck. Pat. I love this,” Brian leaned on the bathroom mirror, vibrating with excitement._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Shit yes. I wish you’d told me to dye my hair dark. I look great. God, we should go clubbing. I absolutely hate clubs, but when I look like this it’d be a waste not to.”_

_It turned Pat on, the preening, but he couldn’t kiss the newly made-up face, so he resorted to tonguing up the kid’s neck hungrily._

_Here, now, with the understated costume, it looks good. Simple. Black turtleneck, denim jacket. Slim black jeans. The little leather choker is a nice touch. Ironic, or just sexy-vicious._

_It’ll be extra humiliating, when this pretty young fashionable thing in bold eyeliner makes a grown man cry. Pat’s looking forward to it._

—a breath of fear, but also relief. Fuck it, at least they’re getting started.

  
  


“We can’t keep meeting like this, Gill,” the princeling purrs, slides only half-a-step into the room. He’s not wearing shoes, just thin black socks that trip, cat-quiet on the polished stone.

“My bad,” Pat offers glibly.

_So, sometimes when they play, they plan everything. Each step in the scene, each escalation, where the outs will be. But usually there’s creative space, especially with character work. It’s fun. Invent, quip, parry, keep the scene aloft. Keep track of established facts. Polish, present, act on your motivations. Surprise each other. That’s the best part. Brian adores surprising and being surprised. Pat adores everything that Brian adores._

“It’s so _tedious_ , to have you running into me at every turn.” The dainty chin props itself on a fist, examines the man before him with a little sanguine smirk.

“I show up where the trouble is.” Pat can’t shrug, with the bar.

“So I see.”

He’s delicate, but not quite _feminine_ —the face is boyish, though, frivolous, youthful-keen. He might be royalty, and surely he’s spent some summers in exotic locales, but Pat can hardly think of him as a _man_ . He’s just a kid. An overindulged brat who never has to hear _no_.

The kid clicks his tongue. Pat drops his gaze. A staring contest won’t be wise, with Gilbert polished and pretty and sharp, and Pat naked and already starting to shiver with cold sweat. Don’t get into games that you can’t win. He looks at the socks instead, at the doorframe.

“Why do you _insist_ on mucking with my plans, Patrick?” He flicks the _r_ with relish. “You have to know it’s hardly going to slow me down. I have the resources to escape your little snares.”

“You will until you won’t. We nearly nabbed you in Morocco.”

A snort. “Sure. Your people spent a fortune on that, and for what? A couple mobsters? A few weapons? And my second-best shoes, you _animals_.”

_Adorable. The little smirk._

“A dozen hostages.” Pat offers.

“Only eleven,” the kid giggles. “Don’t you remember?

_He’s so fuckin’ quick._

“I remember.”

“Did I do a good job, looking _terrified_?” Gilbert mocks, wide-eyed.

_God damn. Pat needs to take some improv classes._

The kid goes on. “You’re quite _dashing_ when you play the hero, Gill. It’s almost worth it, losing a deal here and there, if I get to see you work up close. I hope you didn’t get a talking-to, for letting me just _waltz by._ ”

Pat half-smiles. “It was a rough debrief, yeah. They polygraphed me twice.”

“I can teach you how to fool one of those,” the kid flips his hair. Flirty. Two more steps into the room.

_Quite a lot of establishing, for this one. Brian must be psyching himself up. The more words he squeezes out, the more confident he grows. Dialogue helps him stretch the legs of his new role._

“But wouldn’t it be _easier_ if you just turned a blind eye to my…indiscretions. What’s a hostage here and there, between friends? We’d be so much better off, to just ignore each other.”

“I’m game. Show me the door and we’ll call it square.”

“Now, _that’s_ a lie,” the kid says with a smile that Pat hears rather than sees.

_It’s not just words, though. Brian layers it all on. Words, costumes, movement, atmosphere._

The toes trace into the room. Light. Almost dancing. The kid is humming something—something Pat knows—he can’t quite put his finger on it—not until the lyrics crest mumble-soft over the edge of the breathy tune.

_“... well you know that I’m a wicked guy I was born with a jealous mind…”_

_Atmosphere._

Gilbert circles the room. He’s fiddling with things, here a there. Lighting a candle. Opening a drawer. Out of the corner of his eye, Pat sees a few things he recognizes—a ball gag, a whip—and several he does not. A black plastic case. Something with a metal chain. A silvery tool with a medical flavor.

Pat shivers as the feather-light feet take the kid out of his view. Now he can only hear the soft singing—

“… _run for your life if you can little girl, hmm-mm-mmm… ”_

—and the little shuffle and tap of moving things.

Pat clenches his hands into loose fists, takes a steady breath. He could turn, but what’s the point? Facing the threat won’t do him any good. It’ll just make him look nervous. He steels himself as the humming approaches, sidles up behind him.

The hand in his hair is not surprising, but it does make him jump.

The other hand is on his cheek.

_“…let this be a sermon I mean everything I've said…”_

The hair-hand pulls, tipping his head up. The cheek-hand strokes, plucks off Pat’s glasses, tosses them carelessly aside. As if they don’t matter at all. As if Pat won’t need them anymore.

“... _baby I’m determined that I’d rather see you dead_ …”

The wispy-soft singing is _more_ unnerving when he can see Gilbert’s face, upside down, staring at him with an unreadable expression that is closest, perhaps, to mirth.

“You’re not going to kill me,” Pat cuts in, with as little concern as he can manage.

“Oh? You think I’m just too _cute_ to get my hands dirty?”

“You’re not cute.” Pat makes his voice flat. “You need me to deliver a message. So drop the theatrics, kid.”

The hand tightens. The look sours.

“You don’t know me at all, then, Gill. I’d sooner keep the theatrics and lose the message.”  

He shifts, limber leg curls around Pat’s body—

puts his foot on the crease between thigh and hip—

steps down his weight with purpose—

his two hands grasp the bar at Pat’s shoulders.

“And I’m not your _kid_.”

He pulls up, deliberate—

the bar shifts, with the collar, and Pat feels the panicked jump of his heartbeat. It’s familiar, the jump of fear he gets before something perilously unpleasant, body thrilling with attention and vivid sensation. The collar’s digging in, under his chin, forcing his posture up to the fullest, and then forcing it up _more_ , twisting a bit, not quite yet cutting into his throat but _moving that way_ —

there’s a beat—

two beats, a trembling breath—

then—

Fuck it, he’d rather choke than just sit here so close to the kid’s crotch and _almost_ choke.

“Do what you want,” he grunts. “I think— _mmph_ — you can’t afford the risk.”

“I _like_ risk, Gill,” Brian hisses, and yanks the bar hard, to the side, Pat’s body with it.

He goes sprawling. The foot is shoving at him—pressing, half-kicking—Brian’s tugging and tutting as if he’s a particularly slow pupil. Pat’s fighting to predict the movements, to comply fast enough to avoid throttling himself, to lean the way he’s shoved. Eventually he gets it.

He takes two breaths, as the feet step away. Fights back to calm.

“So, why am I here, Gilbert.”

His voice is _relatively_ steady. Pat’s good at sounding calm under duress. Practiced. Even prostrate and helpless, hands and feet spread wide. Belly and chest and all his tender parts flat on the ground and viciously cold. He knows what it’s like, for your body to want to flinch, your voice to waver. He knows how frustrating it is, when someone’s trying to get a rise out of you, and you _just won’t._

Two more breaths. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“I know you mean to ask me something. Might as well just ask.”

_It’s cheating, making Brian do all the plot work. But he’s so good at it. At least for once Pat has an excuse to be impassive._

Brian ignores. Or rather, he ignores Pat’s _words_ . Pat’s _body_ —

isn’t being ignored.

The feet tip-toe around him daintily, nudging here and there. It’s startling, the stroking. Anywhere Pat flinches away gets extra attention—a slow and wicked brush up his inner thigh from knee to groin, a teasing tickle at his flaccid dick, a knuckle digging in behind his kidney, a press explores the tension in his shoulderblade. Nothing hurts, but it sure as shit doesn’t feel _good_.

The kid’s humming again. A different tune, now. Pat thinks it might be Springsteen. No words, yet.

Toes press his cheek, force his head to the side. There’s nothing quite like someone’s foot on your fucking neck. It’s a very visceral, primate reaction, the fear. It happens even before pressure or pain. Just complete helplessness.  

“… _oh oh oh I’m on fire_ …”

Adrenaline always makes Pat want to fight. Could he? Move, swift and sharp, and knock the kid clean on his ass? He probably could. He might even break something. It’d be an unfair scuffle, but Pat’s bigger, and he’s got the element of surprise. And how much pain could Gilbert possibly take. If Pat can get a hand on wrist or face or throat, he might be able to wring a key out of the little shit. That’s all he needs.

_“… hey little girl is your daddy home? did he go away and leave you all alone?... “_

Both feet thread themselves through the crooks in Pat’s elbows. He’s standing directly over Pat’s head, then, letting the bar press on his slim ankles. Bouncing on the balls of his feet. The vibrations are uncomfortable.

Something is clicking, back and forth, above. Brian’s fiddling with something. The sound’s vaguely familiar.

_“… tell me now baby is he good to you?...”_

Kid’s fucking agile, is the only thing. He might jump free without a scratch, and laugh, and switch to some new game. Maybe a game that involves whatever’s making that clicking sound.

_“... can he do to you the things that I do?...“_

This game is fine, for now. Pat waits, and tries to breathe steady.

Eventually, Brian cuts off his own rambling singing with a disinterested sigh.

“I _do_ need a couple things from you, Gill.”

The flicking-click. Sharp. Metallic.

“You’ll give them to me, tonight.”

 _Click._ Ah. Swiss army knife. That’s what it is. No sudden movements, then.

“Pity I have to give up my Saturday night for you, though. So I’d also like a little entertainment.”

“I can teach you how to play pinochle,” Pat offers.

_Brian snorts, and Pat smiles into the floor. He takes his wins where he can get them._

“No, but thank you, Patrick. Let me be clear.”

He crouches, then, and presses metal to Pat’s back. Hard to tell which little tool it might be.

“I know you flipped one of my girls. You or your team. Probably you.”

The metal is cold, but not as cold as the floor. Brian’s fingers are resting on Pat’s shoulder, very light, steadying himself. His crouch is tense, unstable. A nudge could tip him over. Pat holds his breath.

“I need to know where you have her, so I can come find her.”

The metal traces, menacing and slow, down his back. Pat can feel it stutter against the knobs of his spine. It doesn’t make a sound, but the staccato feeling punctuates the kid’s lilting sing-song.

“ _And_ I need to know what she’s told you, so I can decide how many of her sweet baby sisters to have killed.” He rocks on his heels. “Tell me nice and quick and I won’t make her watch.”  

Pat hisses out a breath.

_Intense, Bri. Kid’s ramped up now. He’d mentioned that he needed to do some “sadistic motherfucker worldbuilding.” Here it is, Pat supposes. He can work with that._

“I can’t help you, Gilbert.”

“You’re so _heartless_ ,” Brian huffs theatrically. “If you don’t help me out I’ll just have to kill _all_ of them.”

_Tap yellow, the kid had said, if I get carried away. He’d looked so cute, so innocent, when he said that. Rubbing his hair, all shy and blushing-sweet. Like he’d never had a dark thought._

“I _can’t_ help you,” Pat says gruffly, into the floor. “No matter who you kill.”

“It’ll be such a waste. Three girls. The big one’s _almost_ old enough to be pretty.” Brian strokes the back of Pat’s neck with whatever the metal thing is. It’s deeply menacing, but it’s nothing compared to that _voice_ , like a whisper and a chuckle and a deadly promise, all in one. “She’d be a good replacement for her whore sister. Pity.”

_Fucking hell, Brian._

Pat chokes. “I can’t tell you anything, Gilbert. Please—”

“Boring,” Brian scoffs and steps daintily away. “Begging is boring. Stop it. If you’re not going to tell me what I want to hear, _shut your fucking mouth_.”

Pat breathes. If he’s not allowed to beg for mercy, then what the fuck is he supposed to do?

“Well, let’s have you on your feet like a man.” A laugh. “Later I can have you on your back like a whore.”

  
  
  
  
  


The hook on the ceiling looks sturdy enough. Still, Pat tries not to put weight on it.

At least the collar is unattached now. That’s better, even if it means his hands are stretched higher, over his head, more strain on his shoulders. At least this way he won’t fall and break his neck.

Brian isn’t just touching Pat, he’s _groping_ , with a violence that staggers Pat’s breathing and throws off his balance. As if Pat is inanimate. As if there’s something _in_ Pat that he’s feeling around for. As the kid is an anatomist who works exclusively by touch.

At first, Pat stifles his cries and jerks—

he gives up on that pretty quick. It’s clear that they don’t _matter_. Brian pinches a handful of flesh here and there, and absolutely ignores any reaction on Pat’s end. Why waste energy, damping down yelps that the kid doesn’t care about anyway.

“Where do I start with you,” Brian murmurs to himself, and presses the tip of his thumb up into Pat’s ass without preamble.

Pat tries to flinch away, with a humiliating little sound—

but he’s not allowed. Brian curls a forearm around his hip—

gropes around, gets a hand on his balls and god—

the hand is _not gentle_.

“Ah ah ah,” says the little tyrant now licking a stripe up Pat’s ribcage. “If you’re going to move I’m going to be _nasty_. There’s no reason your feet need to stay on the ground.”

The one hand stays gripping him, but Brian’s other hand curls up under Pat’s armpit, as if drawn in by his whimpers. Fingers tap his lips.

“Suck on these.”.

Pat opens his mouth and lets the skinny digits prod in. He never finds he has enough saliva, in these moments. His mouth is always uselessly dry. It always goes worse for him. Gilbert doesn’t seem bothered, though.

“I was going to save fucking you for last.”

The chin rests on his shoulder. Pat’s taller, but he’s not at his full height, with his legs like this. The kid might be on tip-toes, though. He’s acrobatic like that. He could claw around Pat’s body and touch him in three several places and balance and grip and shove and still sound flat, like that. Bored.

“I thought it’d be _dramatic._ You’d be so afraid of it, all night. Know it was coming. All the _buildup_ , Patrick. I live for that sort of thing.”

_Pat can’t suppress a snort. Damn right, theater kid._

_Brian growls, chiding. Don’t fucking laugh, is what he’d say. I’m trying to do a thing._

“But then. I thought—” he squeezes, and Pat cries out in honest pain, “—what if the poor thing’s a _virgin_.”

There’s no way to respond to that, not with the grip, and the fingers forcing in harder, demanding his mouth work to their wicked ends.

“So I thought, Gilbert, he won’t even know what to be _afraid_ of. So why not start with the fucking. That way when it comes around again he’ll know _exactly_ what to look forward to.”

Sucking impassively isn’t so easy, with how his heart races, but Patrick manages.

“Hm. So little reaction? A real tough guy, hmm. I know your type. Seen it all and lived to tell.”

He squeezes, and Pat gasps out a plea for mercy that is made unintelligible.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Brian coos, softly. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll make you feel things you’ve _never_ felt before.”

The fingers withdraw, as does Brian’s chin. The elbow around his front, stays, though, with its steely grip on his testicles. Doesn’t give him a lot of leeway, to jerk away, as the intrusion drags on the way in. Pat just has to grit his teeth and breathe through every knuckle of the first finger.

“ _Jesus_.”

“Blasphemer,” Brian hisses at him, and _twists_ , oh Christ.

Pat breathes out steady and slow, tries to master his body. It’s difficult, but doable, as the finger begins to fuck in and out of him with a cruel rhythm.

“How does it feel, Gill,” the voice hums. “Burns?”

It does, but Pat’s not saying anything, not if he can help it.

“Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal.”

He can’t respond, because the second finger _hurts_ too much for something clever.

“You want me to use lube, I’ll bet. And I want you to get used to giving me what I want.”

“What do I have to do,” Pat groans, because he really doesn’t want to safeword, not _this_ early.

“Oh it’s _easy_. All I need is you to fuck yourself on my dick.”

Pat hangs his head. His shoulders hunch, almost of their own accord—

“Oh come _on,_ baby,” Brian trills. “It’s gonna happen either way. This’ll be so much _gentler._ ”

It will be, that’s the truth, but it doesn’t make it _easy_.

_Maybe he could stand it, without. Maybe—_

“You’ll have a lot more _fun_ if you just play along,” Brian hums, stroking down his back. “I don’t offer this to _everyone_ , kitten. You just look like you _want_ it.”

—fucking humiliating. Just humiliating enough.

“Fine, Gilbert,” he sighs into the floor. “I’ll play your fuckin’ game.”

“Good boy,” he earns a smack on the ass, for his trouble.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Brian presses in with— _God_ —very little prep. The lube does help, though. As do the cuffs on his wrists. They’re quite nice, actually. Wide, several buckles. They take weight without hurting, so he can lean over. Like a good whore.

“Stay still there, baby. Let me enjoy you.”

Pat shivers and grabs the bar with his fingers. _Fuck_. His dick might be hard soon, if the kid goes slow, but if not he’ll be keening in brutal pain. It’s right on the razor’s edge.

Brian plants his feet, draws himself close, and waits. He’s maybe—not more than halfway in. He just fucking _sits_ there, though, one hand around the base of his own cock, moving languidly back and forth. Their breathing rhythms are fighting each other, jagged and rapid.

The kid’s petting his hair. It could be sadistic, a parody of affection, or could just be tender. Lips press to Pat’s neck. He starts to move deeper.

_Pat drops out, for a second. “Yellow,” he breathes, “but don’t pull out.”_

_“Okay,” Brian says gently. The hairs he’s tugging behind Pat’s ears are sticky with sweat. “What do you need?”_

_“You can keep going,” Pat grits through his teeth. “I want to. But just—uh—a second.”_

_“Too much?” Brian breathes into his spine. “I know you like to be manhandled. I was trying to let you set the pace. Do you want more lube? More prep?”_

_“I don’t, actually,’ Pat grunts. “But we can, if you want. I just need more, uh, talking.”_

_He listens to Brian take this in, his breathing steady in and out. “All right. I’m assuming you don’t mean sweet nothings.”_

_Pat barks a laugh. “No. What you’re doing is great though. Your psycho giggles. The singing. I just need more. I need to fucking hate your guts. I need to push through to spite you.”_

_Brian ponders this. “ ‘kay. I can do that.”_

_“We can call it, if you don’t want to go that hard.”_

_“I know you like getting rough fucked. I’m not afraid, if it feels good.”_

_“Honestly, it’s more intense for me, if it doesn’t really feel good.”_

_“Ah. Okay, then.” Brian kisses him, again. “I’m gonna add more lube anyway, and then you can fuck yourself as rough as you want. I’m not gonna do it for you, though.”_

_Pat feels himself shudder. “Cruel.”_

_“Thanks,” Brian smiles, and kisses him again. “Good start, then. Let’s see how I do, working you up.”_

The burning returns, dulled a touch by cold lube.

Gilbert’s fingers jerk in a few times, before he slides himself in relentlessly.

“ _Ooh_ you’re tight,” Brian hums as Pat squirms. “So tight it almost hurts. I like that.”

“Of course you do,” Pat hears himself sound scratchy-faint. “You sicko.”

He grits his teeth through the probing, the stretch, the fight of his muscles and his mind. Brian hums something, and laughs a little whenever he pulls out of Patrick a hard-won gasp. The cock slides in, jagged-cruel progress that jumps and stutters and drags. Going in is the worst, Pat reminds himself. Once it’s in—

“C’mon little one,” Brian coos, “Let me hear you _cry_.”

 _fuck_ , he’s stopped again, fucking _asshole_ —

Simone never _stops_ like this—

never strokes his hips with delicate fingers and sucks hard into his neck—

“What does it _feel like_ , Patrick?”

He says nothing.

“Gathering your thoughts? I can wait, baby. You take as long as you need. We’ll stay right here until you tell me how good it feels.”

A breath out. _God_ — _damn_ —

“Is it the biggest you’ve ever had?” he chirps.

Pat forces out a joke. “Technically. Kind of a participation trophy, though.’”

The thready uproarious giggling—

_it’s just magnificent, the giggling, my heavens_

“Oh you. You’re _too_ funny, Gill, too funny.”

He’s rewarded for his cleverness with the feeling of the dick moving again. It slides out a bit—god, why _out_ —out slow slow slow slow, and in again, also torturous slow. Pat pants like a dog. The sensation is so fierce that, even though the kid is humming again, and Pat surely knows the tune, he can’t quite place the  song—

_“....gonna give you all my love, boy, my fear is fading fast…”_

ah Madonna, of course it’s Madonna—

 _“…hmm mmm mmm with your heartbeat next to mi—_ ooh, do that again, honey. When you _clench_ like that it’s so very very nice.”

“You’re a psychopath,” Pat breathes—

_it’s a compliment, to the kid. He really turns it on—_

“And you’re a tight little bitch. Fuck yourself on me, now.”

Pat’s body hesitates. It’s just so fucking _hard_ to make himself—

“You _promised_ , ” Brian sneaks a hand around, tweaks his nipple. “You promised you’d play.”

“I—” Pat’s fingers tighten on the bar.

“You’re taking _so long_ ,” Brian whines. “I kept up _my_ part of the deal. You’re nice and slick and _all_ I wanted was a little help.”

“Please, I—”

“I said no fucking _begging,_ ” Brian bites out, from whiny to vicious, on a dime, and as he says it he jerks his body and Pat moans. “Your sniveling makes me _soft_ . If you’re going back on the deal I’m done with you. I’ll call my guys in here and they can finish what I started. How many do you think you can take, Gill? How many, before you’re _crawling_ back for the chance to ride my cock instead?”

The cuffs are good. Tight. Pat can pull against them and swear and bite down his ragged breath and move, just slightly, out and back.

“ _Good_ boy.” Fingers on his hips guide his movement, gentle—but the voice is anything but. It’s icy-sharp. “Bend your knees, slut,” Gilbert dictates. “ _All_ the way out. then back in. I want you to feel the whole thing.”

Pat doesn’t actually do much, not really, just leaning forward and back a bit while Brian thrusts slowly. Still, there’s a _humiliating_ edge to it, to fucking himself willingly on the kid’s dick. His whimpers of pain punctuate Brian’s filthy patter.

“I can feel every inch of you, puss,”

Pat drops his head in a hot rush. Layers on layers of red-faced feelings bubble up.

Brian’s clever enough to notice the sob, to lean on that. “Your sweet little cunt is stretching for me.”

 _Why_ does that fucking do this to him, why does it make his dick jolt—

“Aww, baby girl, don’t cry. You’ll spoil your pretty face.”

“You’re _sick_ ,” Pat sobs, and grinds himself back onto Brian’s eager length.

“I haven’t even _done_ anything,” the kid breathes, light and laughing. “It’s all _you_ , honey. All I wanted was two little things. I didn’t _want_ to fuck you. But you talked me into it. And now you’re so hard. Maybe this is what you’ve been chasing, the whole time. Is that why you keep finding me?”

Pat moans in shame and gratitude as Brian starts to jerk, because he doesn’t have to fuck himself anymore, thank god, thank _god_.

“Wait a second. Here baby girl.” Brian’s combing his hands through Pat’s hair tenderly, gathering it a the back of his head, snapping an elastic around it. It’s a sloppy ponytail and it pulls a bit, the rubber band. It makes Pat’s shoulders hitch with shame. “Now isn’t that better? No hair in your eyes.”

Pat closes them anyway, enjoys how the burn in his face and in his ass feel, like hot spots of fire that leak into the cold tight forgotten edges of his extremities.

“I’m getting close, little one. Do you want to beg for me to come?”

Pat’s hanging, limp, being fucked brutally, he can’t _do_ this, he can’t.

“If you beg _real_ pretty I’ll come. And then your poor little ass will get a break.”

He can’t. He can’t beg for _that_.

“Cmon baby. All you gotta do is ask for it. Please Brian, come inside me, I wanna feel you pulsing, I want you dribbling down my thighs, I want to make you feel so good.”

He _can’t_.

“If you don’t beg now baby girl I’m just gonna make you do it later.”

Pat sobs, but doesn’t say anything, and so Brian laughs as he pulls out.

“I get it, I get it. You’re hungry for more. What a good little whore you are. I’ll fuck you as many times as you want, baby, don’t worry. We’ve got all night.”

  
  
  


_Pat needs a break, after that. It’s still early yet, and he doesn’t want to stop, but he needs a minute to be let down and drink some water and go pee and let Brian curl around him on the bed and stroke his hair without irony._

_“Too much?” Brian says nervously._

_“No, no,” Pat murmurs, from where his face is buried in Brian’s shoulder. “Good. All good. Not too much. Sorry.”_

_“Don’t be sorry, Pat. Take your time.”_

_He doesn’t indulge this urge much, the desire to bury his face in the kid’s chest and just breathe. Pat knows his proper place is big spoon. But—today it seems right. To let Brian stroke down his back and hold him like a child while he steadies himself._

_It’s gross, maybe, but Pat loves the smell of the kid’s skin. He’s always faintly floral, and even his sweat is oddly sweet, to Pat’s mind._

_“You’re good, kid. I’m almost ready to get back into it. Heart rate coming down.”_

_“Okay. Should I keep on with the same? Am I hitting the right notes?”_

_“Like a fucking opera singer. I feel like I’m going to die of shame. Or of getting murdered.”_

_“...that’s good, right?”_

_Pat pulls up his head and kisses Brian’s face. “It’s magnificent. You’re destroying me. I love it.”_

_“But you’re not in subspace yet.” Brian’s biting a fingernail. “You’re still, like...really present. Am I doing something wrong? I know you like to lose yourself.”_

_“I’m staying afloat, kid,” Pat says gently. “Because I like watching you work. It’s a master class.”_

_“Awww,” Brian blushes, nervous smile creasing quick across his face. “Really? That’s so nice.”_

_“Really. Are you enjoying yourself?.”_

_“I—” Brian pauses. “This is gonna sound really fucked.”_

_“Comes with the territory. Just say it anyway.”_

_“You’re really handsome, Pat. Like. Manly and stoic and rugged and unemotional and all that.”_

_Pat raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to butter me up for something.”_

_The kid laughs. “No, no. I mean. I love that. Very good acting. It’s working on you. I just meant to say like—it brings out something sadistic in me. Your straight face. I didn’t know I’d get into it, like that. I just wanna fucking burn that shit right out of you.”_

_He looks nervously at Pat’s face, to see the reaction there. Pat is amused. “You’re not the first person who seems to have that reaction, baby boy.”_

_“I know Simone—”_

_“Not just Simone,” Pat cuts in. “My twitch subs pay literal money to torture me three nights a week, Bri. There must just be something about my face. People love to see me in pain.”_

_That sheepish grin is so, so cute. “Yeah. I love it too. Especially when you say thank you to them for it. Oh, it’s so fucking hot. Very ‘please sir, may I have another.’”_

_Pat dips his chin. “Speaking of. I’m good now. Ready to kick off again.”_

_“Okay.” Brian kisses him. “How many more acts you got in you? One, or two?”_

_“Let’s shoot for two and I’ll call you off when I can’t take it.”_

_“ ‘Kay. More standing okay, or do I need to switch to the bed?”_

_“Standing fine. Can you leave the spreader off my arms? Unless you need it. My shoulders got a bit pinchy.”_

_“Of course,” Brian nods. “I’m gonna get you up there, and then I gotta take a lap and get hype. Okay? Door’ll be open. Just yell. I’m a few steps away.”_

_“Take your time, kid.”_

  
  


 

 

 

The position is much the same—uncomfortable but not _painful_ —but his arms have a little more play with just the cuffs instead of the bar. They’re lower, too, so Pat can reach to brush back his hair, if he wants. That’s nice.

He’s facing away from the door this time, but he can hear the sound of Brian pacing the apartment and singing to himself. The singing is so fucking cute.

It was _months_ of dating before Pat realized that Brian’s casual _Oh, I always have a song in my head_ meant no, he literally _always_ has a song in his head. Always.

Of course, it usually just stays in there, an unspoken soundtrack to the kid’s brilliant little life. It’ll burst out only in moments of extraordinary concentration— distraction— bliss— fear— curiosity— drunkenness— okay, actually it happens rather often. It’s no big production, though. Just a little twist of melody, a lyric or two, not even a whole stanza.

Pat considered it a funny habit. Adorable. Random. Then one day…

They were grocery shopping. Brian, bopping his head, scanning shelves, singing some little snatch of something, in fast cheerful Spanish.

“I didn’t know your Spanish was that good,” Pat broke in.

Brian blushed. “Oh, no, no, it’s not. My Spanish teacher made us memorize pop songs. I don’t remember the grammar. But songs are sticky.”

Pat’s charmed by the bouncy little tune and looks it up on his phone. It takes him a few spelling tries to figure out _asereje_ —

but he laughs out loud when he sees the English title is _The Ketchup Song._

“Did you sing that _specifically_ because you were looking for ketchup?”

The kid blushes red. “Not on purpose. But probably. My brain does that.”  

So the melodies are _not_ random. Sometimes it’s about mood—an angry little chorus of Joan Jett, complete with headbanging, when the kid gets a nasty twitter comment. Sometimes it’s word association—five minutes after he trips and falls on his ass on the sidewalk, kid’s humming _chasing pavements_ absentmindedly. Sometimes it’s just a straight up observation—rainy days collect a lot of umbrella-related songs, or tap-dancing.

It’s like a fucking ARG, figuring this shit out, because Pat doesn’t have encyclopedic song lyric knowledge. Plus, Brian’s bad at answering “Why are you singing that?” Half the time he doesn’t even know the secret code his brain is using to transmit its messages.

 _It’s just like how my brain works,_ Brian shrugs. _Don’t worry about it._

But Pat _does_ worry about it, because it _means_ things, and sometimes those things are relevant to Pat’s interests. Like, he’s figured out that if Brian’s rocking out to _take me to church_ in the car ride home, it means that he would really, really like Pat to grab him by the collar as soon as they’re in the door and make him _beg_ for forgiveness.

Besides the clues, it’s also just cute, to hear the kid sing his little pump-up jams. Pat tries to encourage him to do it out loud, as much as possible, because he really gets a kick out of it. Before he goes on stage, he tends to hum some Michael Jackson—cleaning the house is usually The Temptations—when he’s trying to cheer himself up, he busts out some Ben Folds.

As he stalks through the hallway right now, the flavor of the moment is _Sympathy for the Devil_. It’s fucking sexy. Pat has a soft spot for classic rock. The mood, more than the  scattered lyrics, thrills up his spine with chilly delight

“… _use all your well-learned politesse, or I'll lay your soul to waste, mm yeah…”_

  
  
  


 

“So this has been a waste of time,” Gilbert drawls, tracing down Pat’s chest.

“Well, I’ve been having a blast,” Pat tries for dry.

“That’s the spirit,” Brian tweaks a nipple. “Anything you’d like to tell me, Gill? Before we keep on keeping on? Any little tiny smidge of information.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I can be _reasonable_ , Patrick. Maybe if you’re _very_ good I won’t even go looking for her.”

“You wouldn’t find her, even if you looked.”

“I found _you_ , didn’t I?” Those giggles.

Pat parries. “Technically, I found _you_.”

Gilbert lifts his chin with a stern hand. “Mmm. Well done, then. Things going just as planned?”

Pat sighs.

“So what’d she tell you, Gill.” His thumb strokes Pat’s stubble.

“It must be important,” Pat says, slowly. “If you care so much.”

Brian throws off an impatient wave. “I care about little details. I’m silly. Meticulous. Whatever else your little files say.”

“Sadistic. Vain. Theatrical. Homose— _ah_!”

“You’re so _funny_ ,” Brian grins, as his fingers dig in bruising-tight on Pat’s jaw. “I wouldn’t put me down as _homosexual_ , though. I’ll fuck anyone who can scream.”

“That’s covered under sadistic,” Pat grunts. “But I’ll put in the correction, if I get a chance.”

“Why thank you, sweetie. Again, details. I appreciate them.”

“Have you considered—” Pat sighs in relief as the hand leaves his face. “that I might not _know_ the details, about your girl. I do field work. I leave interrogations to the brass. I’m on a need-to-know.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brian is rummaging the room as he talks. “I know you’re assigned to me. Anything they find out on my operations, they’ll tell you. And anyway—” he shrugs. “It’s simple game theory, Patrick. What do I have to lose, by torturing you? Nothing, and quite a lot to gain.”

Pat takes in and lets out a breath. “Well. Point.”   

“Oh, what a _professional_ ,” Gilbert says grandly, gesturing from the dresser with a dramatic little bow. “No hard feelings, then? Just two men, doing their jobs?”

Pat scowls. “Fuck you. You’ve never worked a day in your life. You _enjoy_ this.”

“A man can’t love his work?” Brian’s walking back over, deliberate, with something in his hands. Pat doesn’t, for the life of him, know what it is. Several things, it seems like. Oh boy.

“This isn’t _work_ ,” Pat breathes, uselessly, as the sleek body in front of him crouches, head perilously close to Pat’s dick. He’s afraid to look down, and he’s afraid to not. Fingers are fondling him, slick with lube, at the base of his cock.

Something _cold—_

he sucks in a breath. A metal band, around the base of his penis. Cock ring. Okay. Pat can deal with that, depending on what—

the second band surprises him—cold metal again, and lube, but this one near the tip , just under the lip. He glances down to see what might happen next—more rings?—but then he sees—

 _fucking_ hell—

he should have known—

it’s perfect, thematically perfect, of fucking _course_ —

the little black thing in Brian’s hand has _wires—_

oh Jesus _God_ in heaven—

Pat’s breathing fast with fear, _real_ fear—

“Panic, Gill?” Brian murmurs.

“I don’t _know_ what you want to hear.” Pat lets his fear leak into his tone, across the boundary

_real, and yet not-real._

the cruel fingers adjust. “You can end it whenever you like, you know.”

_he trusts Brian, though—_

“I _can’t—_ ” he gasps toward someone.  

_he’s never even thought about what this might—_

“You can, Patrick. You can stop me. You know what I need to hear, sugar.”  

_Brian wouldn’t do this unless it was safe—_

“Don’t fucking _call_ me that,” Pat growls, claws back, “You piece of _shit_ —”

_it’s probably going to fucking hurt like hell—_

“You’re going to _love_ this, sweet thing,” Brian croons. “I promise. It’s terribly _fun_.”

_hard to believe—Pat’s zapped himself on a broken lightbulb before—_

“ _Stop_ ,” Pat pants—

 _and never once thought “oh man, I wish that had happened to my dick”—_  

“This one’s my _favorite_ ,” Brian whispers, wickedly, as lubed fingers and _something else_ find Pat’s ass

_at least he’s done it before_

“You’re a sick _fuck_ —”

_this is too fucking much_

“Shhh, dollie. Stop fighting. Let me get this in you. I know it’s not as yummy as my dick. But you’ll learn to like it. Open up.”

_I’m trying, kid—I’m fucking trying—_

“You don’t have to do this.”

_the metal is cold and smooth and Brian knows just where his prostate is of course—_

“Neither do you,” Brian taunts. “You can stop me whenever you want.”

_well fuck._

“Please.”

_should he?_

“Just tell me what I want to hear, Patrick. Where is she.”

_yknow, you only get to do things for the first time once._

“I can’t tell you. I don’t fucking _know._ ”

_and what a fucking first time this will be_

“You _can_ , baby. One little word. That’s all. Just give it to me, real quiet. No one will ever know.”

_a surge of affection. he wants to say thank you, but it wouldn’t fit. so instead—_

“Fuck you.”

Brian taps a finger against his ass. “Guess we play on then.”

“Guess so.”

“I’m so _glad_!” Brian claps and laughs. “Let me get a myself a chair.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It starts so light Pat can barely feel it at all. It’s a little confusing, honestly, because terror tends to feel a bit electric, and the predatory way Brian looks at him is also enough to elicit little shocks of fear.

But as the kid fiddles, the sensation crystallizes. It’s mild, unpainful, and fucking _weird._ Like the prickling when your foot starts to fall asleep. Like a rush of goosebumps. Like he’s drunk too much coffee, but this caffeine is _super weird_ and exclusively targets your ass.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.” Brian’s voice is unaffected.

“Tickling,” Pat says softly, letting his shoulders drop.

“Any heat? Pinching?”

“Not yet.” Pat’s voice wavers.

“It shouldn’t do that. If you feel one spot that’s hot or hurts, say so right away. That means bad contact.”

“Okay.”

“Breathe, Pat. It doesn’t hurt?”

“No, no. It’s just—it’s _weird_ , Bri—”

“Yeah, I know. Just see if you like it. It’s not really supposed to hurt when it’s low. It’s s’posed to feel nice.”

“Do _you_ like it?”

Brian dimples, in the chair in front of him, strokes his thigh affectionately. “What do you think.”

Pat manages a smile. “Probably. You’re a real freak.”

“Guilty,” Brian chuckles. “I don’t think I can even feel it at this setting, any more.”

“Oh _fine_ , you little shit. Turn it up, then.”

“You’re the boss.”

It feels like—wow, it’s _weird_ —tingling washes—it’s _good_ , in some ways—not exactly like being touched, but not not like that. It makes Pat whimper with nerves and need, how relentless it is. He can’t do a fucking thing, to squirm away, to change the sensation.

“Any pain?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Pat hates how small his voice sounds. “I don’t—I don’t know what it is.”

“Does it feel good?”

“Not—not yet, to be honest. Or kind of. I don’t know.  

“You’re hard,” Brian observes.

“Happens when you’re around my dick, kid. Can you—” Pat grimaces. “Can you go up one higher? The tickling drives me crazy.”

It’s better, higher. It prickles more sharply, less diffuse. It’s kinda like a vibrator, or a tight handjob, but like _inside-out_ , if that makes sense. Oh, no wonder Brian likes this. Connoisseur of new sensations that he is.

Brian’s humming tunelessly, and has his fingertips just brushing Pat’s hip. Steadying him. The fizzling tickling weirdness carries on. Like someone’s blowing bubbles in his ass. It doesn’t build or ebb.

“More?”

“Sure.”

 _Oh jesus fuck wrong decision_ , he’s swearing already, soft cursing under his breath—

“Hurts?”

He can’t—it’s indescribable, incomprehensible, like arousal itself but buzzy-smooth and _relentless_ —

“Pat. Look at me.” Brian’s standing. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Pat forces out. And it doesn’t, for all that. It’s prickly-fierce and _pleasurable,_ despite the twitching jolts deep within his ass that echo like some kind of painless cramp. His hands and toes clench against it.

“More, please.”

The kid narrows his eyes. “I don’t think so. It’ll hurt.”

“Let me try?”

“Fine.”

Brian pushes it up once more, and _damn_ it smarts, stingy and jerking-sharp. It makes Pat pant and dip his head. Wring his hands. Start to sweat. It’s such relief, the pain.

“Sgood,” he grunts out, because _this,_ this he can bear—this is closer to what he imagined—

But the kid turns it off. “Okay. That’s enough of that. A quick breather. So you don’t go numb.”

“God forbid,” Pat huffs out. “How long are you gonna keep me like that.”

“However long you like.”

“I think I could hold on to that last one a while. A few minutes.”

The kid is resting, limbs careless-slung around the chair. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Oh?” Pat says cautiously. He can probably take more, for short bursts, but—

“I’d rather pick something lower for longer,” Brian taps his fingers menacingly. “Something that feels nice.”

Pat’s shoulders hitch. “It’s hardly torture, if it doesn’t hurt.”

“I think you _like_ the pain,” Brian says, slow and knowing. “I think it’s actually more cruel to chase only the good feelings, for you.”

 _Fuck_.

“It takes a bit, but you’ll come without a single touch, I promise. It’s really something.”

This is terrifying, this tone and this promise, and Pat says nothing.

“I really love it,” Brian admits. “You can’t help yourself, as it builds up. There’s absolutely no control. You’ll feel so totally helpless. It doesn’t even get sore. I could just make you come again and again.”  

“ _Jesus_ ,” Pat lets out a huff of breath. “You little fucker—can I convince you—”

“Shall I dip back into character? At least then you can hate me for it.”

“Please,” Pat begs, and sets his jaw as Brian smiles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Pat trusts Brian implicitly. Brian knows Pat’s body, really, really well. Probably better than Pat knows it himself. Brian can give him ASMR tingles any time he likes. He can tell if Pat’s awake or asleep. He can sense when Pat’s too tired to deal with a whiny brat, and when Pat would like an excuse to give a spanking.

So naturally, he knows _exactly the worst possible setting he could choose Jesus Christ—_

“ _Please_ ,” Pat begs pathetically.

“Please _what_ ,” Brian taunts from behind him. “Need to blow your nose?”

He does, actually, but the crying isn’t his primary concern right now. It’s the sensation—the pleasure, _only_ pleasure, twitching strange pleasure and how it builds, relentless, how it flows _through_ him and makes his muscles flutter, his body fuck itself in little micro-jerks—

“ _Please_ god, I can’t—”

“You _can_ ,” Brian wraps an arm around, and at least there’s that— _something,_ some touch that’s not this terrible fierce relentless alien sensation that sends waves through his prostate and up his nerves and to his brain no matter how he squirms—

dear _god_ he needs to make sure Simone never gets her hands on this—

“ _Please stop,_ ” he begs, and Brian _does_ , turns it off sudden—

and fuck that’s _worse_ , that’s worse actually, because his orgasm recedes and fizzles away and then it’s just the buzzy jerking echoes of the feeling which don’t really dissipate—but now are building to nothing—

he sobs—

“Oh you’re a _delight_ , Patrick,” Brian murmurs in his ear. “You don’t even _need_ me. You could just torture your own little self, couldn’t you?”

He knows his breathing is ragged and undone, but what can he do?

“You wait as long as you like, sweetie,” Brian kisses his neck, bites his ear. “The longer you wait between the slower it’ll go. Take all night if you want. I’m sooooo patient.”

Fucking _hell_. “Please—”

“Again the _non-specific begging_ ,” Brian scolds. “What do you want, lovey?”

“Let me go,” Pat weeps, because that’s easier than the thing he’s supposed to ask for.

“Try again. What do you _want,_ Patrick _?_ ”

“I—I—”

He can’t, he _can’t_ ask for that, ask to be at the mercy of that feeling again—

“Let me help you, then.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“Just repeat after me, all right? _Please Brian, give me more. Until I come_.

“Please—” he chokes before he gets it out.

The false start makes the sadistic fuck laugh. “You _really_ want this to take all night, don’t you.”

“ _God._ Okay. _Okay._ Please Brian, give me more. Until I come. Please.”

The little metal pieces spring to life. The kid pulls Pat close. Curls his arms around Pat’s chest. Takes some of his weight, as Pat’s body pulses and shakes. It’s better, being held close. Feels kind of like he’s being fucked. Or the echoes of being fucked, a long way off.

“ _...see the pyramids along the nile…”_

The sultry singing in his ear is as torturous-lovely as the rest. He _is_ going to come this way, he realizes. It’s going to be _slow_. Brian’s not going to touch a fucking thing. Just hold him, and sing soft under his breath, and wrap their bodies close, and wait along with him as Pat unfurls.

What a way to go.

  
  
  
  
  


“Where the fuck do you pick up a crazy thing like that.”

“I read a book about it,” Brian says softly, as he’s letting Pat down.

For a moment, Pat doesn’t know who is talking to him. The Brian who loves to torture him, or the new and heartless creature who also loves to torture him, but perhaps not for the same reasons _._

“You read it for this?” he asks both of them.

“No,” Brian makes a strange little huffing sound. “Just for fun.”

Pat needs to know, now, which one it is, because if that’s a throaty little giggle he needs to do one thing, and if it’s Brian’s light breathy sob he needs to do something else.

“Kid. You all right? Scene over? Or going on?”

“Over, over,” Brian says quickly, “I wouldn’t—unless you want me to—you seemed—kinda done—”

“We can be done,” Pat confirms, as he regains control over his hands and uses them to wipe his wet face. “You were _fucking incredible_. You’re not crying, are you?”  

“No, no,” the kid says, stooping at his ankles and unlocking. “I’m okay. It was really fun.” That little sort-of-giggle again. “Which makes me feel kinda fucked up.”

Pat pulls the kid’s arm and presses their bodies together, kisses hard into that wicked red-black mouth. “I know the feeling.”

Brian laughs. “I figure. How do you usually feel, after?”

“I usually get to come,” Pat points out. “You can do that, you know. I can take a little more. You can fuck me. You don’t have to let up.”

“I was gonna,” Brian admits. “I planned—I thought we’d switch to the bed, and I’d call you nasty names, and you could cry into the pillows. That’s what I’d want, if it were me.”

“Sounds like you,” Pat smiles. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t think I can,” Brian admits. He’s running his hands through Pat’s hair, gently easing out the rubber band and massaging the scalp. “I dunno if I can get back into character and also get it up.”

“Ah,” Pat tilts his head back, lets the fingertips scratch and soothe. “Find out this isn’t your thing?”

“Not that. No, no—you’re _beautiful_ when you cry, Pat.”  

“It just doesn’t get your dick hard.”

“I think if I were watching someone else it probably would,” Brian smiles wanly. “But it just takes too much concentration. I’m too anxious about fucking up.”

“You’re good at it, kid. Don’t be anxious. You didn’t fuck up. You did fucking great.”

“I’m a little worried that I did _too_ good,” Brian hunches his shoulder for a second. “You cried a _lot_.”

“I did,” Pat agrees. “You really pulled a Simone. I legitimately forgot where I was.”

Brian breathes out slowly, wraps an arm around himself, sits on the bed. “I know it makes me a hypocrite. Because I drop off the planet for you all the time. But fuck, it’s really scary.”

Pat sits beside him, close. Strokes his hair. It’s very sweaty. Surprisingly so. “Scary like a rollercoaster or scary like a car accident.”

“Heh. Like a rollercoaster, but I’m also holding a baby.”

Pat laughs. “I’m not a baby. You can drop me a few times. I’ll live.”  

Brian gives a lopsided smile. “Okay.”

“Still—” his arm curls around Brian’s side, starts pulling off the clothes. Brian will be more comfortable with this conversation if he’s naked. Kid’s a paradox like that. “We don’t have to do this stuff. If you don’t like it. I appreciate the effort, but—”

“I like it,” Brian says stubbornly, helping fight the shirt off. “It’s just a lot.”

Pat rubs his back. Brian’s wiping his face childishly, smearing his makeup. “Here, kid. Stay put for a sec.”

It’s only a few moments to find a washcloth and rinse it with hot water in the bathroom. Pat glances at himself in the mirror. He’s—disheveled, but once he wipes his snotty face and brushes back his hair, he’s presentable. Better find his glasses. That’ll help him look a little less fucked up. Calm the kid down.

The glasses are resting on the bed, behind Brian, and Pat snags them and sits them on his nose before he attends to wiping Brian’s face with the warm cloth.

Brian tips his chin up, lets himself be attended to. “I—I can’t believe you do it for me all the time.”

“To be fair, kid,” Pat smiles, and thumbs his face to the side. “I don’t do _that_. All that elaborate stuff. You still do the costumes and the stage direction and the writing. I just show up for dress rehearsals.”

“I don’t mean that part,” Brian pouts, and closes his eyes, so that Pat can clean them off. It’s streaky, so he has to rub a bit, but he tries to be gentle.

“What part, then?”

“Like. You push me so far out I can’t get back on my own.”

“Ah. That scared you?”

“Not _really_ , I just. I get nervous. I could _really_ fuck it up.”

“You could,” Pat kisses him, as he finishes cleaning and sets the thing aside. “You probably won’t, though. But you don’t have to do it, kid.”

“I like it,” Brian repeats again, grabbing Pat’s shoulder. “You _know_ I love acting. And improv. And surprising you. And trying new things. And playing a character. And making you feel good.”

“Oh, sure, I know you love that,” Pat laughs. “But it’s not _altruism_ that keeps your dick hard, baby boy. You remember when you got so high you couldn’t even talk?”

“Yeah,” Brian grins, and pulls Pat down, forces him onto the bed so he can snuggle into his arms. “That was the _best_ thing. Ever. Thank you. _Thank you_. I know that was even more work for you than this was.”

“No, no, kid, that’s what I’m _saying_ .” Pat murmurs into Brian’s hair. “It’s. Um. Pretty natural for me. I don’t need a _character_ to get into that, anymore. I’m just a fucking evil bastard. When I see you sprawled out and absolutely at my mercy, I just think _dear god I’d like to stick my dick in that helpless little mouth._ ”

Although he’s nervous what Brian will say to that—

all he gets is a delighted little sigh. “Oh man, can you just keep talking, Pat Gill? Then I can jerk off.”

“You’re a bad influence, kid. The sickest parts of me get you horny.”

“Guilty,” Brian murmurs happily. “But just for the record, I _do_ want to do this again. It’s fun. And I want to get as good as Simone.”

“Practice on me whenever you like,” Pat kisses the crown of his sweet little head. “Now, what do you want to hear, baby boy. About my filthy mind. Some dirty talk to calm us down.”

“ _Yaaay_ ,” Brian wriggles happily. “Okay, okay, let me get up and get the lights and all. And get you some clothes, if you want them. Water? More pillows? Shorts? Aspirin?”

“I’m good. Just make sure you get the candles. Let’s try not to burn the place down.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


In the darkness, it’s easier for Pat to answer when Brian asks _what’s it like to fuck me when I can’t stop you._

“You’re—beautiful. You’re so helpless. I don’t even know if you were thinking. If you even knew who I was. You were just sucking my fingers and writhing.”

“I was listening,” Brian’s so soft and delicate right now, murmuring and floating on the memory, stroking himself lightly.

“Hard for me to tell, Bri. You could barely even move. Except your hungry little mouth. I swear, you never stop, with that. I think you could suck me off in your sleep."

“I could,” Brian offers. “I think I can learn to do that.”

“ _God_ ,” Pat groans. “Please stop encouraging me.”

“I _want_ to encourage you,” Brian grips himself harder, tight, grunting. “It’s more fun that way. When you’re so horny you take whatever you want.”

Pat licks a nipple and is rewarded with a delicate little moan. “Oh, don’t worry, kid. I took it. You were like a toy. I could play with you however I wanted.”

“ _Mmm_ .” The kid’s working himself up, letting the unnatural tension drop from his shoulders, remembering his happy place. It’s adorable, the flirty-sighing armful of submissive perfection Pat’s holding right now, who’s melting out of the terrifying little demon from earlier. Kid’s a chameleon. “I _loved_ your cock in me. When I had no control at all. I just had to take it.”

“You like that?” Pat pinches a bit, looking for more sweet moans. “When I can use you however I want?”

“Mmhmm,” Brian whimpers, bites his lip. “I like to be your little fuck toy, daddy.”

God, this kid’s _mouth._ “You’re _filthy_ ,” Pat chides affectionately. “You’re good at topping, baby boy, but you know your place, don’t you? With daddy’s cock in you.”

Brian groans and nods frantically, and he’s pretty close. It takes a little more quiet murmuring, and  kissing, and holding, and filthy talk, before the kid can calm down enough to come. He does with a shuddering sigh and curls himself immediately into Pat’s chest, awash with thank-yous and gentle kisses.

“I should be cuddling you,” Brian murmurs, when he’s already almost asleep. “This isn’t fair.”

Pat laughs. “Have you _met_ Simone?”

“She cuddles you after,” Brian yawns. “I’ve seen it.”

“Shhh,” Pat smiles. “Don’t tell her you pay attention to the sweet stuff.”

“Secret’s safe with me.”

They lie and breathe hold each other for a while, until Brian falls asleep, all warm and fuzzy, and Pat comes back to himself, feels reasonable and steady again, feels able to protect the dear little thing that’s in his arms.  

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for:  
> \- (clearly negotiated roleplay of) torture & sexual assault,  
> \- anal sex,  
> \- bondage and sadism/masochism,  
> \- genderfuckery in that kind of "queer-coded villain" way,  
> \- erotic electrostimulation,  
> \- lots of filthy talk (Daddy/baby boy being a perennial favorite, but also real mean shit),  
> \- (references to) sex while high,  
> \- some tapping in and out of BDSM scene negotiation. 
> 
>  
> 
> blah i swear every time i try to write brian topping within this fic it just gets twistier and twistier, less coherent, and spirals off into other unrelated fics. SORRY FOR DELAY hope this scratches someone's itches out there.


	32. ((to a higher place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simone and pat work out some theological kinks. mostly on brian.
> 
>    
>  _MIMI: do you go to the cat scratch club? that’s where i work, i dance_  
>  _ROGER: yes! they used to tie you up_  
>  _MIMI: it’s a living_  
>  _ROGER: i didn’t recognize you without the handcuffs_  
>  _MIMI: we could light the candle…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wildly blasphemous, see end of chapter notes

“Now, you wanna be about this far.” 

“Dyou wanna just go first and show me?” 

“No, no, you can do it.” Simone makes a little  _ hmm  _ sound. Brian knows that sound. He knows what her face looks like when she makes that sound 

(like Brian is the last and best and biggest present under the Christmas tree, and she’s  _ itching  _ to rip him open and see what’s inside)

though he can’t see it at the moment.  “Take your time, Patty. We’ve got  _ all  _ night.”

Brian bites his lip. He knows that’s meant to needle him 

(it works) 

but he smothers his whimper. It’s better not to give her the satisfaction, if he can avoid it. She’ll punish him for whining before they’ve even started. And sometimes he wants that, but today, he’s— 

The bed shifts. Simone’s knees get off it, he imagines, from where she was hovering over his chest. He instantly misses her stroking fingers, the little connection-points of warmth that help triangulate her position. Even if she pinches him, makes him squeal, he like that better than when she’s stepped away. It’s 

(scary)

less appealing when he has no way at all to know where Pat or Simone are, and how they’re going to start

(with a bang, like Simone’s usual? 

(or is Pat being Pat and he’s gonna take his sweet time warming up?))

and whether they’re delighted or turned on or frustrated by him being naughty. 

He pulls on the handcuffs— 

(he pulls too hard 

(because he hopes that Pat will chide him (because then at least he’ll know where Pat is, whether he’s close or far (is he even about to start? is this an elaborate Simone mind game?)))

but no one scolds him)

and wishes he had something to really fight against. 

But no, it’s just the handcuffs, and the blindfold, and Patrick, and Simone, and the stern and definite declaration that if he wiggles  _ even a hair _ he’ll get nothing good at all tonight. He’s anxious about that.

Maybe Pat’s hesitating because he knows Brian’s a goner. That if Simone’s serious 

(oh god, could she be serious) 

he’s certainly,  _ certainly  _ going to be sent to bed without being touched 

( _ and all your pretty tears won’t mean a damn thing, you’re in my house now, baby boy. _ )

Or maybe even though her tone is stern her face is smiling. Maybe she doesn’t quite mean it. Maybe Pat’s just hesitating because he wants to make Brian sweat. Pat loves watching him

(he can almost see it, Pat standing and staring down in that thoughtful way he does, half-amused, half-aroused, when Brian’s trying so, so, so, hard and utterly failing to be good)

loves watching him curse and moan and writhe and whimper and break his solemn promises one by one. 

Or maybe—

(fuck!)

something touches his nipple and he  _ jumps—  _

on his right, Simone laughs— 

“Strike one, baby boy,” Pat murmurs, rolling it carefully between his fingers. 

“S-sorry, sir,” Brian whimpers, and he knows it’s pathetic, that he’s so undone and they haven’t even  _ started _ , not really. 

Then the hands are gone, and Brian’s biting his lip, because he’s back to not-knowing-what-and-who, although at least now he  _ sort of  _ knows that Simone’s on his right and Pat’s on his left, and that he at least has one more strike to tame his reactions, because Patrick is merciful. Simone wouldn’t give him strikes, he doesn’t think. 

Maybe Pat’s a little nervous, too. They haven’t done this before— 

(oh  _ lordy  _ it would be easier if he could see Pat’s face, if he could see whether that glint of nerves is pooling behind his eyes, that blip of hesitation and self-doubt that doesn’t come as often anymore but still rears its head most anytime they try anything really  _ fun _ —) 

—so he might need some encouragement— 

(oh gosh oh golly if he could only  _ see  _ he could tell and give Pat his little impish wink 

(the one that means  _ go on then, big guy _ ) 

and everything’d be all right) 

but if  _ Simone  _ is the one that has to give Pat his encouragement she’ll probably just get bored of his stalling and wrench the candle out of his hand and take out her impatience on Brian’s poor naked body below. That’d be

(barbarous, barbarous, she’d be teaching Pat a lesson (something like  _ if you’re not going to do it then i will  _ (god he knows how she likes him to scream and scream until Pat gives in… 

)))

...less than ideal. Brian bites his lip. 

Maybe those secret looks are passing between them, those ones Brian can’t decipher but that  _ never  _ mean anything good, always mean they’re cooking up some kind of tandem plan that— 

_ fuck—  _

(the kiss surprises him and he flinches so hard that he bites)

—that’s not  _ fair _ —he wasn’t—a  _ kiss _ —he didn’t expect—   

he fails to stifle a sob, a stupid little sob into Pat’s mouth. 

“I’m sorry, daddy, I’m sorry—” he moans uselessly. Two strikes, he’s already at two, and they haven’t done anything to him yet, he’s so  _ pathetic _ —  “God I’m sorry—I know—two strikes—”

Pat makes a sound beside him like he’s either putting something down or picking it up, and Brian tenses his whole body  _ hard  _ because he is  _ not  _ going to move, no, he’s going to be good, no matter where he starts, no matter if it’s chest or belly or thighs or even— 

“Shhh,” Pat hushes, and pulls the blindfold off

(why’d he have to go and do that, why do that  _ now _ when Brian’s eyes are just edging on red) 

and looks down at him seriously, a hand cradling his neck. “You’re skittish today, Bri. What’s up?” 

“I—I don’t really know, I’m just—” he pauses, evaluates. “Jumpy, I guess.” 

“We don’t have to keep going, babe. Want to end the scene?” 

“ _ No _ ,” Brian makes a face that he knows is petulant, but he can’t help it. “I want to play, I just…” He sighs. “I don’t want to be needy.” 

“Shh. What do you need?”

Brian lets his neck relax a little, lets his forehead lean into Pat’s wrist, feels the fingers in his hair. He loves those four little words. They’re maybe his favorite four little words in the whole world, when Pat’s saying them, and looking down at him tender like that, and he knows that whatever stupid thing Brian says next 

(whether he asks for it to hurt or to feel good or to stop or he asks for  _ more _ ) 

Pat will move heaven and earth to make sure he gets it. 

“I love you,” Brian breathes, because he can’t help it, and because he knows it’ll make Pat’s lips quirk in that way, and because he just  _ does _ , he does. 

“I love you too, baby boy. What do you need?” 

“Can we either, like, lose the blindfold or…” he hesitates, because it might be asking too much, “...or tie me down better? I’m really afraid…” 

“If you’re too keyed up,” Pat scritches his hair gently, “maybe we should just stop.” 

“Nonono,” Brian says quickly. “I’m not—not afraid like  _ that _ , just—” he laughs a little sheepishly. “I’m really freaked out I’m gonna  squirm or kick or something and hit you and set the fucking house on fire. I’m not good at staying still.” 

“Fuckin’ ey. I appreciate that,” Simone says from across the room, and Pat kisses his temple softly and whispers  _ good boy _ , and there’s never ever ever been anything better than that. 

Simone steps up close. “I’m good with either, Patty, what’d you prefer? Wanna bust out your bag of tricks?” She grins. “Or if you wanna do it quick and dirty I’ll just hold him down.” 

Brian’s body thrills a little at this  _ other  _ alternative

(he hadn’t thought of that, of her strong slim body pinning him at the waist, touching him while he writhes and waits 

(oh yes, that would be plenty sufficient, as well))

“I’d like to tie him up,” Pat admits, trailing a hand down Brian’s side, and the unpleasant adrenaline that’s been building in his tense spine slides down, uncoils, repositions itself pleasantly in lower places. “I think he’d have more fun. And, well—” his lip quirks. “I know  _ I  _ would.” 

Simone salutes. “I’ll take ten, then, boys. Call me when you’re ready.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Pat’s whole body is gentle, whenever he’s working with ropes. He moves so deliberately, thoughtfully, every movement is a smooth and perfect arc from here to there. Brian finds it indescribably sensuous, especially because the soft movements and words pair with a  _ predatory  _ gleam in Pat’s eyes, a wolfish tenderness, the gaze of a dark conjurer as he weaves spells with careful satisfaction. 

Just one wrist, to start. Pat takes it, turns it over, wraps around it a few times, back and forth. 

“That’s a Somerville bowline,” he says, idly, as he finishes a tidy knot on the inside of the wrist. He’s in the habit of talking, while he ties Brian up

( _ because it takes so long  _ he says, self-deprecating, when Brian asks)

and it makes Brian shiver with delight, every time, even though he’s not praising, or scolding, or smoldering, or teasing, or anything like that. The cool, almost scholarly way his syllables knock together, as if he’s showing off something he’s so good at that it’s rather boring to him. 

_ Fuck _ , it’s hot, to be worked over by something who knows what they’re doing. Pat’s put a Dark Souls-level amount of time into learning how to bend Brian’s body to his will. He’s fucking good at it. 

The tail of the rope slides across Brian’s bare waist. Pat positions his arm, pulls it snug, stroking the skin wherever he feels like, neither hard nor soft. 

“This should rest at the narrowest point,” he hums, almost to himself, and finds it, and wraps across.

Pat never really gives orders, when he’s tying Brian up. Not with his words, anyway. He just makes these little directive touches. He doesn’t ask for Brian’s wrist. He just puts his hand on Brian’s shoulder and slides down the arm and grasps and takes it when he wants it. He doesn’t say  _ turn over on your belly,  _ he just nudges firmly with a hand in the small of Brian’s back, and makes sure his fingers follow carefully to keep all the ropes together. 

No instructions, but he does ask, “Comfortable?” as he loops the cord around Brian’s waist again, in that back-and-forth-and-back way he favors. 

Brian tests it before he answers. His wrists are tied with wide knots to the belt of rope across his waist. His arms are slightly bent. “Yeah, it’s good. A bit loose, honestly..” 

“Well, hang on,” Pat cautions, voice affectionate. “It’s about to get a little tighter for you.” He coils the end of the rope around the knots, perpendicular. It— 

(oh, it’s  _ very  _ good, that, as the slack disappears, the friction, the tautness) 

tightens up as promised. 

“I like that, daddy,” Brian says, before he even thinks about it, just lets himself float on the feeling of being caught. “Thank you.” 

“Such a good boy,” Pat murmurs, and strokes his back. “I’m gonna tie your legs too, baby boy, so you can’t kick me.” 

Brian shudders with relief. “ _ Thank  _ you. You’re so good to me.” 

Pat’s hands roll him over, guide his leg up, bend it, push the ankle close to the thigh. “This’ll be a simple one,” he says, in that calm teachery voice. “A frog tie, that’s all. So we can reach anything we need.” 

Brian whimpers with need as the rope wraps around, ankle and thigh, pulling them tight together. He separates the strands and coils them, perpendicular, again, to make sure everything is snug and clean and lovely. 

“Let’s put the knots on the inside of your leg this time,” Pat chuckles. “See if it buys me a little more time.” 

Soon Brian’s all trussed up, hand and foot, and helpless. 

“Test those all for me, love. Try your wiggling.” 

It’s not hard to obey an order like that, not when Pat’s hands are pulling and twisting and toying with him, at his balls, his nipples, teasing the head of his cock. Wriggling comes very natural, indeed, as do those embarrassing keening sounds of desperation, when he’s been teased and teased and now he really has no way to stop the teasing at all. 

“If you’re good, I’ll fuck you like this,” Pat says, rough and sultry, and Brian moans with the promise. 

“Oh  _ please _ ,” he’s begging already, because he can feel it, he can  _ feel  _ how good it will be—

(Pat’s cock pressing into him while he’s squirming and wriggling

(would it be face-up or face-down? (he’s flexible enough for either, he thinks (although it  _ really  _ doesn’t matter what Brian thinks, now— 

there’s no way he could stop Pat from fucking him however he likes fast or slow—)))) 

“If you’re bad, I’ll let Simone do it,” he continues, and Brian’s moan drags off into a sob. Oh god, she’d be— 

( _ ruthless,  _ she’d be ruthless

(the position’s too simple, too comfortable, they could leave him tied like this for  _ hours _ )

(she’s already got designs on his nipples, he knows that)

and if Pat let her she could do something  _ really  _ heinous 

(like tie him to the bed by his knees and fuck Pat on top of him

(or worse, shove him under the bed to wait

(or  _ worse  _ worse, make him balance on his toes and fuck  _ himself  _ on one of her suction-cupped monstrosities while she enjoys Patrick’s cock and makes him  _ watch _ — )))

)

He lets out a little shaky breath of fear and anticipation. 

“Too much?” Pat raises an eyebrow at his stricken face. “Not in the mood?” 

“I  _ am _ ,” Brian pushes back. “My mind’s just running wild—I know it’s annoying, but—” 

He pauses. It’s kind of late in the game for this. He wishes he had a character

(he’s not  _ trying  _ to be difficult, he’s not, he’s not

(to be so  _ needy _ , to need so many different complicated layers of things

(layering down a half-dozen tedious scripts just so everyone can enjoy a nice clean fuck))

his brain just  _ is  _ difficult, sometimes, spiraling down too many potential paths, and it fucking helps a lot to have a character so he can 

(sort through the fake nerves and the real nerves and the excitement and the pleasure and the pain and the trying to be good and the trying to be bad and the jittery-skittishness and lusty urges) 

narrow the possibility space a little. 

“Nevermind. I’m good, I’m good.”

Pat seats himself gentle on the bed. Brian swings his knees over, together, so he can press his belly Pat’s side. He can’t touch him, not really, but it makes him feel good to be a little curving c-shape wrapped around Pat’s slim body. 

“What do you need.” 

The hand stroking down his upper vertebrae is patient. Not annoyed. 

“I don’t have any ideas,” Brian admits, embarrassed. He’s glad Simone stepped out, for a minute. He doesn’t like her to see him like this, when he’s tapped out and needy and just  _ wants  _ without knowing  _ what  _ he wants. “I just don’t know who to be.”

“Candles always put me in a sort of pious mood,” Pat murmurs, stroking a thumb in circles on Brian’s hip. “And lord knows Simone’s already halfway to a demon.” 

“Oh, Pat that’s  _ good, _ ” Brian says, surprised by how  _ fast  _ Pat can do this now, how quickly and easily he can bring up a dark little idea and flip it off like it’s nothing. It’s not nothing to him, Brian knows. It takes effort, to share his fantasies, the little flits of inspiration that float up in Pat's mind. They're beautiful, but he's weird about it anyway. 

Brian can already feel it clicking together in his mind, dusting out the cobwebs. “You mean like an—angel and devil on my shoulders thing?” 

Pat pauses. “I’d never cast myself as an angel, baby boy, but I can try my best.” He leans over, to kiss coarsely into Brian’s neck. “I do like you as a tormented sinner, though. That does something for me.” 

“ _ Forgive me, Father _ ,” Brian breathes immediately, and Pat chuckles. 

“You filthy little heathen. I’m definitely going to hell for this.” He bites down, sucks, and then relents. “But God, I want to hear you scream the litany of saints with my cock in your ass.” 

Brian bites his lip and offers up a moan. His brain is going a mile a minute, but at least it’s going in a  _ direction,  _ now— 

(does he know any saints?)

(can he just steal Pat’s little strange blasphemous exclamations?)

(is the Latin gonna be useful?) 

“Christ. You’re already finding it, aren’t you?” Pat chuckles. “Let me go hep Simone to the jive. She went to Catholic school, this should be easy.” He kisses Brian lustily. “You’re really in trouble, now.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


They make him close his eyes, while they’re getting dressed

(he scooches up on the pillows, excited to see

(but he’s good, he’s good, he keeps his eyes closed)) 

and when he’s allowed to open them again a minute later his heart quickens just a bit. It’s not fancy, or anything. Simone’s still in black, although now braless—he can just see the hint of her nipples pressing against the tight fabric and the twist of her lips is wicked, wicked.  Pat’s swapped clothes to an overlarge white dress shirt (probably hers) that’s open at the chest and the sleeves are rolled up. He looks, well 

(like he always does—breathtakingly handsome)

kind and gentle. He brushes back his hair. 

They look so  _ alike,  _ the two of them, slim and dark-haired and beautiful and staring at him. Pat’s got such an open-faced loving expression, like Brian’s his favorite pet—Simone, the same, except maybe the kind of love on her face reads more like he’s her favorite pet chicken and she loves how delicious he’s going to be. 

“What…” Brian licks his lips, nervously. “So what am I deciding between?” 

Simone cackles. “Give him his motivation,  _ Saint Pat. _ ”

“Simple. No decisions.” Pat draws close, on one side of the bed. He grabs Brian’s knee, and Simone takes the cue, mirrors him. They yank Brian down, so he’s on his back again on the bed, legs splayed wide. “It was Simone’s idea, actually.” 

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

Their hands, almost in unison, trail up his thighs, and start to ghost across his dick, his balls. His lower lip is gonna be a  _ mess  _ tomorrow, from biting. 

Pat continues, unperturbed, as if his fingers aren’t feathering up the side of Brian’s cock. “How much do you know about purgatory, Brian?” 

Ah— _ ah _ —it’s hard—to  _ think _ —but he knows that one, he knows it—he gets the idea, he thinks— 

“So I really— _ agh _ —” goddammit Simone “I really am dead then.” He sighs. “I  _ knew  _ I should have gone to confession last week.” 

Their faces light up with twin smiles

(well  _ that’s  _ not right, they’re not  _ both  _ supposed to have evil cackles).

“I know it means…I wasn’t good enough. But maybe I…” he lets his voice trail up, hopeful. “Maybe I get a second chance?” 

“That’s right.” All their hands are on him now, his thighs, his belly, his helpless arms, carding through his hair. He hadn’t imagined the afterlife to be like that, all fevered touches and intensely hot gazes and no way to wrench away or lean in for more. It’s not as bad as he’d thought, really. “We’re going to—well. I suppose it’s a sort of test” Pat flicks his nipple thoughtfully, and Simone claws up his side, and it  _ punches  _ a breath out of him.  

“...so what… do I have to do…to pass…?” 

“Repent for your sins,” Pat intones sagely, at the same time as Simone hisses, “Give in to temptation.” 

Oh  _ no _ , oh no— 

he doesn’t need to reach very far to put that look of terror on his face that they both so adore— 

he’d thought it’d be the  _ other way— _

oh boy this is going to be— how would Patrick say it— 

“ _ Jesus  _ Christ in heaven above I am  _ wholly  _ fucked _ —”  _

more delighted, evil, evil laughter. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“ _ Liars _ ,” Brian gasps and lifts his head up from the pillow in desperation “you’re both  _ liars _ —” 

Pat pauses, above him, and just says “ hmm? ”  curiously. The pause is almost  worse

(the slow trail of wax he’s painting across Brian’s chest has only stung for moments, but it’s—it’s _sadistic_ —how he loops it just around Brian’s nipple, teasing, threatening—it has to come some time and fuck—he’s going to scream—) 

and of course Simone doesn’t pause, just looks up with a sultry smile around his dick where she’s working him, hands and mouth, with pitiless efficiency. 

“This isn’t purgatory—” he sobs, because he doesn’t know if it’ll be easier or harder, when Pat finally gets up the nerve and starts searing heat into his tenderest parts. “It’s hell, it’s hell, you’re both  _ devils _ —I can’t—please—God— _ please fucking  _ Jesus God let me come—”

Simone pulls her mouth off him with a little pop and smiles. 

“Do I get a point every time he breaks number three, or…?”

Pat hides his smile behind a frown. “It’s not about points _ ,  _ Simone. It’s about his attitude _. _ ” A long-suffering sigh. “Although I have to say, it’s not going good for you, kid. Clean up the language.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brian whimpers, and changes tack. “I know I—I just  _can’t_.  Please—help me—how do I keep from—if I—I can’t go to hell just for coming by  acc ident,  can I?”

Simone laughs uproariously. “Are you, like,  _ new  _ to the faith, or…?”

He turns his tearstained face up to Pat, because he knows at least he’ll get a little pity. “Can I at least—please Patrick—a break? Can I have some water?”

“Of course,” Pat smiles beatifically and strokes back his sweaty hair. 

Patrick goes to get it for him, while he breathes hard and tries to steady his heart rate, work himself back down from the edge. He’s so  _ bad  _ at this it’s not funny, and it’s infinitely less funny when Pat and Simone keep sidling around each other with such easy sexiness, him naked from the waist-down, shirttails rumpled, her naked from the waist-up, black lacy panties flawless over her beautiful ass. 

He throws his head back and tries to think about Margaret Thatcher, or something, but  _ god.  _ God he’s just not built for this. 

“Simone,” he whispers. “Simone, get over here. I can’t do this. I’m gonna fucking come.” 

“That’s the fun, honey child,” she smirks and draws close beside him, picking at the wax with her fingernails. He’s sure she finds it satisfying, although it’s desperately  _ ticklish _ from below. “I like to win.”

“I  know  you’ll win,” Brian shoves out, hurried. “But  please  back it off a little?— _ please  _ just let him get to fucking me. I won’t last that long without your help. You’re too good.” 

She preens a little, at this. “I do like bargains. Let’s say I tone it down. What’s in it for me.” 

“What do you want,” he says nervously. 

“I always want the same things, baby boy,” she grins, trailing a finger along his lips. “You know what mama likes. Crying, screaming, begging, and your sweet little mouth on my cunt.” 

He nods fervently, and licks out at her. That’s easy. He can do all of that.

“ _ And  _ I want to gag you,” she pulls her hand away, wends it into his hair. 

Brian closes his eyes. Fuck. Maybe she’ll— “But you won’t hear me begging then.” 

“Oh I’ve got something you can beg around,” she tweaks his nipple. “I just like watching you drool.” 

“All right,” Brian nods, because he doesn’t so much mind looking ridiculous as long as he can beg for mercy  somehow .

“So we have a bargain?” Simone tugs hard at his hair, until he squeaks in pain.

“We do,” he answers firmly, and she lets go. 

“Oh  Lord ,” Pat sighs, and Brian opens his eyes with a start to see him in the doorway, shaking his head. “I leave for  _ two minutes  _ and here you are literally making deals with the devil.” 

Simone cackles. “Too late, homeboy! Another point for me. Now let me go find my toys.”

  
  
  
  
  


While Simone finds the gag she wants, Pat pulls Brian up to a seated position, props the glass of water at his lips. Brian tries to look innocent and desperate and sad and grateful and certainly not like he’s chosen sides already and sin turned out to be more fun. 

Patrick’s gaze is so  affe ctionate,  when Brian’s helpless like this. He brushes back Brian’s hair and cradles his head. “What’d she threaten you with, baby boy,” he murmurs. “It’s not fair for her to come at you and yank you around when you’re at yellow.”

Brian leans back a smidge; Pat lowers the cup. He gives a faint smile and nuzzles Pat’s hand— 

and  _ lies through his teeth _ —  

“She’s  mean _ ,  _ Patrick,” he trembles. “— please  don’t…don’t leave me alone with her?” 

“Sorry, kid,” Pat ruffles his hair, as if smoothing away the pain from Simone’s tugging. “I won’t.” 

“Cut this sappy shit,” Simone barks, back at Pat’s elbow in an instant. “He agreed to my terms, you goody-two-shoes, so he’s gotta live with it.” 

She pushes the gag in, then. It’s not too bad—does nothing to stifle his moans, as promised—just a wide bar that cuts across his mouth and buckles tight behind his head. His tongue presses hopelessly against it and drool begins to dribble down his chin, but he’s not gonna complain. The straps are padded, and the taste is pretty neutral, and it seems to really get Simmy in the mood 

(she leans close into his ear and calls him her  _ sweet little fuckpet _ with real enthusiasm that thrills down his spine, and tells him  _ I’m gonna fuck with you a bit before I let your daddy have his way with you _ )

so really, not such a bad deal, after all. 

“No more of that,” Pat says sternly, drawing her away from his head. “You’ve got him in enough trouble.” 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Simone sulks, and pulls back. “But here’s the deal, you sanctimonious prick. If you keep going easy on the boy he’s gonna come for me right away and then he’s off to hell and it’s  your  fault. So get a little nastier, why don’t you. At least give me a  _ challenge. _ ” 

Pat glances at Brian’s face, and Brian nods assent.  _ It’s okay. Really _ . 

“All right. What do you propose, then.” 

Simone cracks her knuckles and lays her fingers on Brian’s chest like he’s a ouija board and she’s a dollar-store psychic. “Get a little closer with your candle, darlin. You can drip here—” she touches his nipples, “—and here—” the delicate skin around his armpits, dear  _ god  _ he knows that’ll hurt “—and here” his inner thighs, “—and why’d we even shave here, if you’re not gonna try it,” she touches his clean-shaven pubic region, “—and see how he reacts to that. Should be pretty spectacular.” 

Pat sighs. “Can he even safeword, with that thing in,” 

“ _ Yetthir,”  _ Brian tries, and it’s understandable, if garbled. Simone laughs. 

“See? What a good little pain slut. I’m gonna go back to  _ my  _ business then.” 

Her business turns out to be running her tongue up Brian’s length and fingering him open, nice and slow, making him writhe and cry out desperately. 

Pat bitches, because all the wiggling fucks up his aim, but Simone just beckons him to try moving his hand down lower, then, and soon Brian’s  _ also  _ crying from the searing pain that slides down his skin and sticks with burning heat. His cheeks are wet when Pat’s done with his nipples, the soft skin of his arms, but Pat gives up halfway through the thighs. 

“I can’t do this while you’re fucking him like that,” Pat mutters, frustrated, “He moves too much. I don’t want to splash anywhere.” 

Simone giggles, and curls her two fingers against Brian’s prostate to make him moan and buck even harder. “Fair enough. He’s just such a desperate thing.  Why don’t we trade places then.” 

Brian holds his breath— 

oh please oh  _ please _ — 

and when Pat gives a dusky chuckle, Brian feels his heart lift. “I see how it is. You two and your plots.” 

“Dunno what you’re talking about...” Simone trills innocently— 

her  _ fucking fingers  _ don’t let up, though, and Brian can’t possibly—no one could possibly—how could you be quiet when she’s—

“...but don’t you  _ hear  _ him, daddy,” she taunts, and twists, and wrings sounds out of him that are surely—surely—at least Pat must find them—a  _ little  _ tempting— “Hear how bad he wants you? I’ve never seen such a hungry little slut. He’d sell his whole soul just to get you to fuck him up right.” She smirks. “Maybe he already has.” 

“Oh, Brian,” Pat sighs, and puts down the candle, and the soft dark voice

(dark with disappointment and amusement and disbelief and lust) 

makes Brian whisper a litany of breathy not-quite-sincere apologies.

“Well, you gonna make it worthwhile?” Simone’s voice is so  _ evilly  _ satisfied, as her fingers stroke, stroke, stroke in just-too-soft-and-slow rhythm. “Why don’t you just fuck him nice and hard until he comes. Bet you won’t even have to touch him. God’ll never even know.” 

Pat’s fingers trace over Brian’s knee. “How did this become about tempting  _ me _ .” 

“C’mon, darlin,” Simone grabs the shirt and drags him close, bites a kiss up at his throat. “Fallen angels are so  _ hot _ . Hell throws all the best parties.” 

“Oh lord be merciful to me a sinner,” Pat groans. 

“That’s the spirit!” she laughs. 

  
  
  
  
  


Brian  _ wails  _ when Simone digs an ice cube out of his water glass and runs it across his nipples. 

“Stop  whining ,” she scolds. “It just makes it easier to get the wax off.” 

He stutters his apologies, but he’s not really paying attention, because Pat’s done getting ready and he’s pulling Brian to the edge of the bed, and Brian’s trying desperately to angle his bound feet so they won’t get in the way. 

She pick-pick-picks the wax off while Pat teases a lubed finger around his hole, and his whimpering and needy begging probably sounds even more pathetic to them than it does in his own head. 

“What’s that, baby?” Simone tweaks his freshly-exposed nipple. “You want more?” 

He moans in despair as she picks up the candle— 

oh  _ fuck  _ is she really— 

god, was this her game all  along — 

no, no, it can’t be, it’s too fucking cruel— 

but Pat’s lining himself up and if they coordinate this shit he is going to  _ break apart _ — 

“ _ Jesus  _ fucking Christ,” he straight-up  _ shouts  _ as the soft pleasant longed-for stretching friction is interrupted by  _ very fucking hot wax, Simone Jesus christ what is that like a half inch away?? _

(it makes her cackle, his cranky lusty whining yelps, and so she does it  again  of course—)

_ what the fuck you absolute cunt I didn’t sign up for this FUCKing hell—  _

(only his swears surface as a rather desperate array of garbled syllables)

“Jesus  _ god,  _ Simone,” Pat swears, but it’s not scolding. It's lusty .

“Feel yummy on your dick, hot stuff?” she cackles. 

"Yes'm," he murmurs, and moves his hands to Brian's hips and—

_oh_ _that's good—_ oh Pat is really gonna enjoy himself—

“You go ahead and fuck him  _ just  _ how he likes, all right? I’ll keep it interesting.” 

Pat  _ laughs  _ and Brian  _ sobs _ — 

god, he should have, he should have known— 

and in a matter of moments he’s being fucked so, so right, Pat driving into him  _ hard,  _ just the way he likes, bruising grip on his hips and tilted just the right way and— 

_ shit fuck cockSUCKER! Simone you absolute—  _

god in  _ heaven  _ it’s good, though it smarts like bloody hell—

he's smoldering, fiery, each jerk against the heat drives Pat in deeper, sets him groaning—

Brian wants—

oh hell, oh hell, he can’t—there’s no way he can—come from this—he needs to be  _ touched  _ damn it—  

he  _ screeches  _ when the heat of her mouth finds his nipples again— 

she’s  _ biting  _ them, sucking the warm wax off toothily— 

oh sweet glorious merciful torture— 

they’re both pretty distracted, is the only good thing—

_ fuck fuck FUCK, please fuck me harder, please please OW SHIT hell fuck—  _

god, he’s not even sure if Pat can understand him— 

Simone’s crowing with delight each time he screams— 

if he can just— 

_ yes _ , hell yes, he’s— 

_ fuck  _ it’s good, good, perfect, exactly, yes, all he needs is a few pumps, once his hand finds his dick, with Pat’s cock driving in and Simone’s hot mouth sucking at him— 

he laughs and shouts in triumph as he finds his orgasm— 

because he’s gonna make a mess, and it feels fuckin  _ great _ — 

“Oh you sneaky little  _ shit _ ,” Simone gasps, 

and Pat groans in something that despite his best efforts sound mostly like pleasure

and Brian screams in glee. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“You came in my  _ hair _ ,” Simone wails, after Brian’s basking in the glow of wild victory while Pat gently unties his legs. He’s smiling, but not saying anything. “How  _ dare  _ you.” 

“Sorry,” Brian grins

(he’s not)

and gets his wrists free himself. He’s won himself enough slack, so it’s not very hard. Pat  _ tsks  _ at that, shakes his head, but Brian knows the scolding isn’t for him 

(Pat always makes that sound when Brian’s got himself loose—something like  _ well I should have known _ )

as much as it is for the gods that made him so. 

“I am  _ never  _ going to forgive you for this,” Simone huffs. “ _ Grooooooooooss. _ ” 

"That's not very Catholic," Brian smirks slyly as he unfurls himself, stretches his limbs and rolls over on his belly. He’s a complete mess and feels satisfied as a cat and pushes up on all fours to crawl to her. Pat smacks his ass affectionately.

"You're the worst," she grouses. 

He kisses into her pout. “I’m sorry Simone.” 

“You're such a naughty little slut." She tangles her hand in his hair. “Whine and beg and  _ plead  _ to be tied up and then just sneaky-sneak your way out.” 

Whatever his sins, he thinks he’ll earn forgiveness tonight, because of the way she’s gripping him, biting into his mouth hungrily. 

“Now you know what I deal with,” Patrick murmurs, in the same tone he usually says  _ I love you _ . 

He’s running his hands up the sides of Brian’s thighs, his hips, setting his grip on Brian’s waist. It feels so good, the warm strong fingers against his skin, the warm amused rumble of Pat’s voice, fluttering through Brian’s fuzzy half-thinking mind. 

He pulls away, because he’s only got one way to earn his keep around here, he knows that. 

“Lemme eat you out, Simone. I’ll be really really good.” 

“Bull _ shit _ ,” she smacks his cheek lightly, although she looks tempted. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word. And you’re a complete mess.” 

“It’s not  _ my  _ fault,” he giggles, and tries to wrap her in a hug. He’s still sappy-silly from coming, and he loves the way she looks at him, cranky and trying not to be horny. Trying to pretend she doesn’t  _ love  _ it.

“Ew ew  _ ew _ wwww.” 

Pat breaks in, reasonable and indulgent. “Why don’t you take him and go shower, Simone. He can make it up to you in there. I’ll take care of the bed.” 

Pat’s so  _ smart _ — 

and Simone instantly comes to life, untangling herself, springing to her feet somehow without letting go of her tight grip in Brian’s hair. It’s 

( _ oof _ ) 

terribly fun, to be wrenched around like that, when he's loose-limbed and grinning, and her fast determined movements let him know he's not gonna be making  _any_ decisions for a while. 

“Good idea, Patty. Feel free to bust out the Netflix, if you get bored in here. We might be a  while . I’ve got quite a few things I want to use him for” 

Brian whimpers theatrically

(ooh boy maybe she wants to use his cock too? he can only hope )

and Simone smacks him again. 

“Don’t fucking  _ lie _ , slut, I know you. For a good boy this’d be a punishment, but I think we both know what kind of boy you are.” 

He nods eagerly, pulling against her hand

(oh, he knows  _ full  _ well what kind of boy he is) 

and lets her drag him off to… 

well. The shower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for:  
> \- M/M/F threesome including digital, oral, and anal sex,  
> \- sadism/masochism, especially waxplay,  
> \- bondage, including ropes and gags and handcuffs and blindfolds,  
> \- some scene renegotiation, to get in the right headspace,  
> \- (roleplay of) religious and sacrilegious ideas and a lot of talking about salvation while fuckin'. 
> 
> unbetaed and sloppy. tryna get back into our sweet bratty brian so i can finish editing these next few chapters <3


	33. - porn -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian's a dick. simone's a star. pat's also a dick, but like, more literally. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _i think that any love is good lovin' / so I took what I could get, mmhmmm_

“ _Cut!_ Patrick, baby, you _gotta_ give me more than that.”

“More what _,_ ” Pat groans, pulling out again, for the fourth goddamn time—

“More _face_ , sweetie, you look like you’re suckin’ on a lemon.”

Pat blushes hotly, runs a hand through his hair. “No one’s gonna be looking at my face, boss”

Brian’s hand skirts over his collarbone, pushes him back a little from Simone. He’s scowling through that ridiculous mustache. “Now look, mop top, if I’d’a wanted just a nice dick with nothing behind it, I coulda just got an _amateur_.”

Simone half-giggles, big gold earrings whacking her cheeks as she turns.

“Shut it,” Pat grouses at her..

“Don’t you give Simmy that sass,” Brian shoves him harder, pressing him away. “She’s keepin’ up her end of the bargain here like a pro. Just look at this fuckin’ fox. Count your lucky stars you get to work with her.”

Brian offers her a hand, and pulls her up from the bed to kiss her twice on both cheeks. She gives another bubbly laugh. She _does_ look incredible, of course. Simone looks incredible in anything, even just a silly knotted crop top. The fabric pools around her elbows, but across her chest it’s nearly sheer. Pat can see the outline of her dark nipples, when she moves the right way—she arches back a little at his gaze, smirking, expanse of smooth belly and nakedness below an obscene and beautiful contrast to the rather demure costuming up above, delicate fabric and flowing hair.

She reaches out and flicks Pat on the arm, so his gaze breaks away. “Caught you lookin’,” she grins.

“He’s doing plenty of _looking_ ,” Brian snorts. “ ‘Slike he’s never seen a fucking tit before, Sim. Let’s take it from the bed, then. And try to make it look like you’re enjoying yourself up there, hot stuff?”

“All right, all right,” Pat bites out, with real frustration—

_it’s a bit, of course it’s a bit—_

_but like always, it’s a bit that hits maybe a little close to home. Pat’s been blushing like a fucking schoolgirl for the past half-hour, letting Brian-the-sleazy-porn-director yank and bark and criticize everything from his pale chest to his dick to where he puts his hands. He’s_ _patient_ _, that’s not the problem…the problem is that Brian’s too goddamn good at this, too full of fucking confidence and swagger and self-important scorn, like it’s 10am and he’s already half-drunk and he doesn’t even have the decency to hide it because that’s the biz, honey._

_Maybe Brian is actually a vampire, Pat wonders, not for the first time, and he’s been just fucking his way through the centuries with wild aplomb. Maybe he spent the seventies hoving around in tight baby-blue bell-bottoms and flowy shirts open to the navel. Maybe that’s why he sounds like he’s swallowed a slang dictionary from the golden age of porn. Otherwise there’s no goddamn way that Simone’s offhand comment—_

_“Stop bossing Pat around, Bribri, with that mustache it makes me feel like I’m on a 70s porno set.”_

_—could have so quickly materialized into this wild cocky bastard who’s jabbing his finger into Pat’s face—_

“—what a dumb bunny, you’re not even paying _attention_ to me.” Brian _yanks_ his hair, tweaking it possessively. “Let me put it in terms you can understand, Patrick. You either remember how to put on a show or you cut out. Some of us are tryin’ to get home before midnight over here.”

Pat takes this abuse without comment, just sighs and pulls his pants back on to start over again. Emoting during sex is—well—maybe not his forté, Brian knows that. But he can give it the old college.

  
  
  


“For the love of— _CUT!_ ”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat curses, softly, as he stops. It takes him a moment of quiet breathing to get himself enough together, red-faced with frustration and lust. Brian let him get _so fucking far_ this time—

Simone’s laughing at him, tweaking his nipple, that fucking bitch—

he thought he was doing _all right,_ at last, when Brian leaned back with satisfaction and gave him a few sparse little hints of praise, all coated with that sleazy lecherous tone, of course, but at least he wasn’t apparently looking too ugly around the face—

“Don’t flip your wig, hot shot,” Brian snarks, but turns away. “Simmy, give it to me straight. You’re moaning like a goddess over here, but can you really _feel_ it?”

“It’s not a problem, daddy,” she grins slyly. “I know how to fake it.”

“You’re doin’ the lords work, but it’s just not _reading_ on camera. Leave the fake fucking to Hollywood. We need it to look _good_.”

 _Pat covers his face with his hand. It’s just a lot, all this. He’s never been criticized quite so directly on his inability to fuck exactly on cue. Fuck, he actually thought he’d be_ _good_ _at this, like a damn fool. Thought Simone had trained him well enough, to be patient, to follow directions, to pay attention. But of course, Brian has different expectations—of course Brian knows just the very last second he can stop Pat in his tracks—_

“—what do you got to say for yourself, over there?” Brian’s got his arms crossed, frowning.

“Nothing,” Pat mutters. “What do you want me to do different this time.”

The kid sticks up his chin. “I don’t like your _tone_ , sweetheart. It’s not my fault you fuck like you’re takin’ out the trash.”

God, it _burns_ under his skin, the way Brian’s looking at him, the most important asshole in the room but still can’t help but stop and rub it in. How Simone laughs at him like a teacher’s pet. How his dick twitches, despite it all. “Just tell me what to do, please.”

“I don’t think I will,” Brian’s eyes narrow. “I think you’re all show and no go. I think you don’t even _want_ to fuck her. Prettiest chick in the industry and you just look like you’re sawing lumber. Maybe you aren’t cut out for _this_ kinda picture, if you catch my drift.”

Pat closes his eyes. Lets it wash over him, the insinuation, the burn, the anger, the lust.

“Nothin’ to say to that, sugar?”

He forces his eyes open and curls his fists, makes his tone calm. “Look, boss, I don’t know what you want from me. Just tell me, and I’ll—”

“Telling you hasn’t been working, Patrick,” Brian’s voice is dripping with scorn. “We’ve wasted a hell of a lot of time—at this point, I better just show you what a good fuck looks like. Dig?”

Pat’s skin flexes instantly into goosebumps. He doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he’s interested, that’s for sure. “All right.”

“Good boy,” Brian smiles condescendingly. “Stay out of the way, then, but watch close.”

  
  
  


Brian fucks Simone _obscenely_ —he hasn’t watched the two of them, not like this. He didn’t even know that Brian could—

_she screeches when he pulls her hair, and he drops out immediately._

_“Sorry! sorry sorry, sorry,” he bites his lip, adorably. “Forgot!”_

_she smacks him_ _hard_ _across the face for his fuckup. “Don’t get too cocky, boy. I’ll_ _end_ _you.”_

_“Sorry ma’am,” he whimpers contritely. “Should I stop? Do you wanna be on top?”_

_“No, no—you’re killing it—mama likes. Keep on pounding like a ton of bricks, honey.”_

_“It’s good?” he murmurs, almost shyly. That’s as much of an act as anything, Pat thinks._

_“It’s VERY good. You know how to use your dick, baby boy.”_

_“Thank you, ma’am.”_

_“So get back to it. And if you pull my hair again I’ll fuck you up so bad you won’t be able to move.”_

_“Don’t say it like that,” Pat cuts in, “unless you want him to start looking for trouble.”_

_“Oh, he can test me if he wants,” Simone growls. “But I’ll turn this scene right around on his ass so damn fast—”_

_Brian whimpers a little, and Pat’s abso-fucking-lutely sure he’s considering it,_  
_weighing the potential rudeness of hair-pulling and the disappointment of spoiling a scene_ _  
_ against the possibility of ending the night in a little wrung out heap on the floor, crying and begging for mercy.

_He shakes his head sharply, curls flying, like he’s trying to get back in character._

—didn’t even know that Brian could look so bold and brassy and confident and beautiful. He’s never just _watched_ Brian fuck anyone, actually. Simone, sure, but usually Simone’s fucking him as much as anything. Or it’s all three of them, tangled up together, and Pat’s got enough to do and feel that he’s not just a voyeur.

But Brian’s athletic, in his slim thin-limbed way, and he’s enthusiastic, and he fucks like it’s going out of style. Simone curls her heels around his back and _drives_ him in, screeching in a way that Pat’s never heard in this third-person context, and honestly, only rarely in the first-person one, anyway. Sometimes, Simone wants to be fucked up real right.

“Ooh, daddy, _fuck!_ ” she whines. “ _Give_ it to me, unh, feels so _good_ —”

She’s always noisy, when she’s in this mood, and _god_ the little sounds are just. Always so good. She’s a performer, Simone, and though he thinks she could be quiet if she wanted, she almost never wants to. She wants to buck and moan and give instructions—

“— _ooh_ , that’s right, that’s the spot, _yes!_ daddy, hit it harder, yes, _yes_ —”  

and grin and scratch her nails down your back, and make sure you use your dick in exactly the way she likes—

“— _FUCK_ , Brian, unhhnn, don’t you dare fucking stop, fuck, shit, _yes_ , ohhhh my god I will cut off your balls if you stop—”

and Brian’s got stamina, it’s true, and flexible smooth hips, and an expression of concentration that’s warring with something like reverence, like he’s just meeting god, and it turns out heaven’s a little wild—

Brian _throws_ his head back, looks straight at Pat, and laughs scornfully—

“Get your fucking hands off yourself,” he barks, “this is supposed to be your cock. If you come just watching it’ll be a whole goddamn day wasted, bitch.”

Pat drops his fingers sheepishly—

Simone _laughs_ and screeches and claws her hands down Brian’s chest—

she’s close, Pat can tell—

“— _ooh_ , baby, brian, baby boy, _fuck_ fuck yes fuck me, you tell him what he is—you teach him— ”

“No point—” Brian grunts, “—old dog—new tricks—”

Simone comes with a scream while Brian’s still fucking her hard, but the kid’s eyes are on Pat, smirking.

  
  
  


They don’t cuddle, after, but they do share a joint—

 _a cigarette would be more period, maybe, but no one here wants cancer, aight_?

—and giggle, and suck smoke out of each other’s mouths, and swap foul-mouthed compliments, and ignore Pat for quite a while.

Pat doesn’t mind, actually. He leans against Simone’s desk, and crosses his arms, and watches them with some amusement. His frustration’s long gone, now, though he’s still hard—hard _not_ to be, after a show like that—and he’s sure something’ll be coming his way sooner or later. A stern talking-to, at least, or something worse.

It materializes eventually.

“Should we take it from the top, then?” Simone drawls, eyes flitting toward Pat lazily.

“You need a rest after a performance like that, darlin’,” Brian says grandly. He’s—

 _so fucking ridiculous_ _in every goddamn way_ —

_and really selling it, the little shit—_

looking self-satisfied. Simone nods. She looks quite sated, but her eyes spark with something mischievous and Pat doubts she’s done for the evening, not really. She’ll be around, for whatever comes next.

“Why don’t you go make yourself something to drink,” Brian shimmies off the bed, offers her a hand like she’s a princess stepping out of a coach. “And I’ll have a word with this chucklefuck over here.”

She gives what could only be described as an airheaded giggle, and goes off, leaving Pat alone with his mercurial employer. Time to find out if the rumors are true. The worst ones probably are.

“So?” Brian taunts with a little smirk, stepping close into Pat’s space. “You learn anything, big guy?”

“Seemed pretty textbook,” Pat says mildly, trying to play it cool. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Brian crinkles his nose. “Your dick seemed to like it.” He grabs the offending member, and Pat gasps a little at the sudden, bold touch, and the unapologetically lewd grin that follows. “Mmm. You’ve got a nice piece here, I _will_ say that. Shame you don’t know how to use it.”

“—now that’s—uncalled-for—” Pat breathes, a little strained, because Brian’s driving himself in _quite_ close now, and he’s just so—it’s not fair how fast this kid descends into a dissolute little monster with a wicked smile. He’s got his pants off but his shirt still on—sleeves rolled messily and shirttails dangling—just how he _knows_ drives Pat mad— “I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh really?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I got no faith in you, hot shot. I haven’t seen _anything_ from you that’s fit to print. You’re just a big dick and not a lot between the ears, huh?”

Pat sighs out a breath between his teeth. He wonders if Brian knows how much it gets to him, the way he’s talking. Almost certainly. Brian knows most _everything_ about what Pat likes, and besides that, the kid’s fucking palming his dick, he’s gotta feel the twitching, and Pat’s stark fucking naked, and blushes down his chest when he gets like this—when he’s getting a thorough dressing down of his virility from a flouncy mustachioed asshole in a floral shirt—

he shakes his head. Refocuses. What’s he gotta do, to keep this job. He can take a little abuse. Better to just keep quiet.

“You’re not gonna make it in this business if you keep tuning me out, sugar.”

“Sorry,” Pat says, quick, contrite. “What’d you say?”

“I _said_ , I’m not paying you until I get some film I can _use.”_

“All right,” Pat says, though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, really.

“And I’m not havin’ you waste more of Simone’s time, until you prove you know what to do with your dick.”

Pat’s ears burn, but he’s starting to get it. “Uh-huh.”

“So let’s see what you’ve got, pretty-boy,” Brian squeezes, and it wrenches a little pathetic whimper out of Pat, the grip. “Let’s say take one is doggie style. Even _you_ can manage that, I think. Unless you think I’m too much to handle.”

It’s impossible, to ignore this taunting. Pat puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder, fits his thumb firmly over the slim collarbone. He pushes a little, until Brian sways. “Nope.”

The kid’s eyes are shining. “Then turn it on, babe, let’s see it.”

With all this working up, Brian must expect it. But it’s still satisfying, when Pat give him a hard shove and the kid goes reeling.

  
  
  
  


Simone sidles in, at some point, but she doesn’t interfere, just sits daintily on the desk.

Brian’s giving it his level best to still be a cocky bitch, even bouncing from the force of Pat’s thrusts and with Pat’s hands wrenching his hair back so he arches like a bow and his moans sound strained.

“You’re really givin’ it to him, Patty,” Simone observes idly, sipping her drink.

“He’s— _ah!_ — lacking a little in— finesse,” Brian bites out, sharp and high, and interrupted by little whines that are _very_ satisfying, to Pat’s ears.

“Whatever you say, boss,” she grins. “Looks pretty good from here.”

It looks good from where Pat is, too. Brian’s squeaking with delight and the edge of pain, back exposed where his shirt’s rucked up, wet with sweat, and he’s fighting Pat’s hand hard to turn around and glare.

It’s so fucking cute, the fierce little scowl, when it’s interrupted every few thrusts by a brief fluttering expression of something weak-kneed and whimpery. God, he could watch the kid do that forever.

“You’re such a—” he pants, breaks off “—macho guy—allovasudden —but can you make it look good—when I’m on top—?”

Pat laughs and leans over to bite at Brian’s neck. “What’s the matter, boss. Can’t take the heat?”

“Hah!” Brian _clenches_ something, and Pat yelps. “Fat chance. Just bored down here.”

“Well, you’re directing, I s’pose,” Pat relents, and lets himself be rearranged.

  
  
  
  


It’s a mistake, letting Brian be on top.

Pat realizes this… more or less immediately. With his legs curled underneath him, Brian can set the pace, the angle, exactly how he wants, and now that they’re face-to-face he can look down at man splayed out before him and read every filthy thought from Pat’s sweaty body, his stifled moans, the fingertips gripping sharp little hips.

It’s _too_ much, staring up at the kid—

he’s completely bedraggled, hair a wild mess, shirt flung open—

riding Pat’s dick _hard_ , eyes wide and hot and vicious, hands clawing down Pat’s chest.

Pat can’t unseat that cheeky smirk from Brian’s face—

well, he _could_ , maybe, if he grabbed those sweet hips and thrust up and really gave him the business—

but it’d be over almost before it began, then. Pat’s patient, usually, but there are limits—it’s been _hours_ , seems like, Simone and her beautiful perfect showmanship, Brian’s and his snarky domineering jabs—fucking and pausing and watching and blushing hard—  

no, he’s utterly at the kid’s mercy, at this point. The best he can do is try not to buck and pray that he’s not gonna be expected to hold out too much longer. Which is a problem, ‘cause the kid’s got _stamina_ in spades, especially when he looks wild and wonderful like this.

Simone, of course, presents a _different_ sort of problem, looming around the edge of his peripheral, watching with hot interest but not _doing_ anything—or not yet—

She perches on the edge of the bed, somewhere above and behind Pat’s head. It makes his heart race even faster, if such a thing were possible.

“Come _on,_ daddy,” Brian laughs. “Get those hips going. I’m doin’ all the work up here.”

“He’s trying not to come,” Simone observes. Her hand ghosts down his shoulder, nails dragging at the skin.

Pat whimpers, as she pinches down his arm lightly. She’s leaning over, letting her body drag across him as he’s being fucked, reaching to detach his hand from Brian’s hip. He can’t help himself, how his mouth drags against her, kissing, licking.

“Should I let him come, you think?” Brian pauses to ask, watching her, as she draws his arm up.

“Up to you, baby boy.”

She licks sinfully up his forearm, sucks at his wrist. Simone _loves_ to give him hickies up his arms, the lower and darker and more impossible to hide the better, especially now that she can just blame them on Brian. She’ll be taunting him for days, for being overdressed for summer— the periodic demands of twitch followers to see his arms all the more anxiety-inducing— Tara’s dry “ _Really, Pat?_ ” when he forgets and rolls up his sleeves to fix the audio on some stream— like he’s a teenaged girl whose history teacher is _just a little concerned, honey_ —

“How close dyou think he is?” Brian asks, and _fuck_ this negotiation right to hell—

“Oh, he’ll tell you. He’s a good boy. He knows to ask before he comes.”

“Does he, now.” Brian’s tone is thoughtful. “He’s not usually that polite with me.”

Simone laughs, at that. She’s playing with Pat’s hand, pulls it up to her headboard, and deliberately wraps his fingers around it. He grasps, obediently, even though the tender underside of his arm is now subject to her vicious pinches.

“My house, my rules,” she intones, and twists.

“Is he always good,” Brian asks, and Pat _does not like that tone at all—_

“ _Please_ ” he begs, to both of them, and neither.

Simone’s voice has a smile in it. “He always tries. He can surely hold out a bit longer. Not forever. You’re a hot piece of ass, baby boy. I know his limits pretty well.”

“Tie him down,” Brian directs. “And show me.”

Pat moans in despair, as she eases his other hand up over his head.

  
  
  
  


Patrick’s good at obeying orders, but sometimes he’s not supposed to fucking win.

He thinks he holds out an acceptable amount of time, considering how they’re working him over. Simone bites and sucks hard into his body, smothering his moans with her tongue whenever he’s too loud, whispering filthy things about how hot he looked earlier when he was fucking up his boy right, and how hot he’s gonna look tomorrow when everyone can glance at him and tell he’s been a busy little whore.

Brian sticks to riding him, and making obscene sounds of pleasure, and looking fucking gorgeous, and that’s plenty enough.

He begs for permission, twice, but it becomes abundantly clear the two are just gonna laugh and tell him _no_ , and so he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of begging any more, because his voice is too pathetic, keening with need and the words falling apart at the seams into animalistic groans.

It’s not fair, it’s not _fair_ —

he spent the whole night fucking these two gorgeous cruel ridiculous characters—

trying to give it to them _exactly_ how they wanted—  

and now they’re _laughing_ at him and pinching his nipples and riding his dick and making fun of how he twists against the cuffs and moans in desperate, hopeless, desire.

He gives in to the inevitable—

comes with a _shout_ , which makes Simone bite down hard, wicked bitch—

and Brian leans over him to capture his tongue in triumph, presses his hot body to Pat’s chest and swallows his whines.

  
  
  
  


They don’t untie him right away—

just clean him up, and laugh at him, and both slither up beside him in bed. Simone steals the pillows from under his head and positions her body tight against his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close, possessive. Brian twines himself more leisurely, on his side, legs sliding under and curling around Pat him while fingers stroke his hair.

“You fucks,” he mumbles, pulling at his hands.

He feels Brian’s brushy face smile into his skin.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Simone yawns. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

If he were Brian, he’d whine at that, complain, point out that he never stood a chance—

—but he’s not Brian, so he just gives that long-suffering sigh that they both like, and appreciates that Simone is willing to cuddle, for once. It’s a rarer mood, for her, but it does happen. It’s invariably more likely when Pat’s just been stripped down to bare beams, and is lying wrecked and useless and hasn’t yet been permitted to reconstruct himself a bit.

She’s not quite so picky with Brian, in his experience. Simone likes touching Brian _quite a lot_ , whether he’s vibrating with energy before a scene or throwing himself headfirst through the middle of it or ending it in rapturous tears and moans and squeaks. She touches the kid him with ravenous desire, no matter what stage of disarray he’s in—touches him like he’s a delicious meal that’s messy and perfect and she’s not responsible for cleaning up the floor, so she’s gonna _enjoy it_. Her fingers are proving the rule, right now, sliding across Pat’s chest, his waist, scraping hungrily at Brian’s skin.

Brian trills like a kitten when she shifts to pet his hair. She pulls it—drags his head right across Pat’s face to kiss him wetly, as if Pat isn’t there at all. Her sharp elbow digs into his side, but he knows better than to complain.

“This was a fun idea, Simone,” Brian murmurs over him. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, boyo,” she smirks, and licks his neck. “It’s cute to see you take charge.”

“Did I do okay?” Brian says shyly. Fishing for compliments, he is.

Simone catches him, twists his hair. “What do _you_ think, baby boy. We write our own performance reviews around here.”

He pouts, but then it slides off quick. “It was fun. I’m sorry I pulled your hair.”

“Eh,” she shrugs, “it happens.” She grins a little serpentine grin, tugs at him. “Actually, I tend to like it if you fuck up a little, so I can take a second to remind you who’s boss. That’s fun for me.”

Brian nods eagerly. “Me too. I thought it was—” he frowns, “pretty good. I got into the vibe real easy, but I it was a little anticlimactic for you. I could’ve organized that better. I got fucked up because—” his eyes slide to Pat.

Simone cackles. “You almost lost the thread in the middle there, baby boy. Ooh, you can’t let Patty take you doggy-style, honey, you get _way_ too distracted. He nearly flipped the script on you, I _saw_ him thinking about it.”

Pat chuckles, aware he’s not supposed to be involved in this conversation, but unable to resist.

Brian slides his head onto Pat’s chest and digs in his pointy chin with a purpose.

“Ow,” Pat remarks. “What’m I getting that for?”

“You’re laughing at me,” Brian pouts.

“It’s not my fault you’re adorable,” Pat muses, warmly, and is rewarded with more bony edge driving into his ribs. He grunts a little.

“I’m _not_ adorable. I’m intimidating. Fearsome.” Simone’s laughing at him, then, and he pouts doubly hard. “You’re both _mean._ This was just a silly one.”

“He really is getting good,” Pat murmurs in the kid’s defense, half because he knows it’ll stir up a smile, half because _let up with the chin already_. “You should have seen him, Sim, with his wild little James Bond scene. He wrecked me. You’d’ve been proud.”

Brian beams with delight.

“Mmm, sounds tasty,” Simone settles her head on Pat’s chest, tucks herself under his arm. Brian mirrors her—thank _god_ , kid’s like all sharp bones when he wants to be. She strokes slowly, rather menacing, down Pat’s stomach. “Why don’t you give me the play-by-play, Bri. We can just sit here, you and I, and run through _all_ the details. I might have a few tips.”  

He feels Brian tense with excitement, as his fingers also start moving, teasing around Pat’s thigh.

“I’m too old for this,” Pat groans, and pulls at the cuffs again hopelessly.

“We know you’re an old fart, Patty,” Simone flicks his oversensitive nipple. “I’m sure it’s a nice long story. Plenty of time for you to recover.”

Pat can’t quite manage a sob—he gives them a plaintive moan, at least, they deserve that much—as they settle down to torture him for another while. He’ll have to fight a little not to just fall asleep like this, as their familiar voices hum across his chest and their hands card through his hair and Simone lets herself indulge in that kind of touchy hugging sweetness that makes her rather anxious unless it’s dipped in a candy coating of wickedness.

Brian’s been good for her, Pat thinks. Pat can be needy, over-needy, in a subtle, intricate way that’s hard to figure out and even harder to fuck with. Brian’s different. He’s needy in plain sight, simple and loud and fussy, makes demands that pop like Christmas crackers when Simone smacks him hard and tells him she won’t give in to his whining. She _adores_ his wanton little pleas, how pliant he is under her fingers, how much he reacts to her most theatrical desires. Pat feels a little one-note, in comparison to this kaleidoscopic creature who’s currently tapping out an absent-minded triplet rap on Pat’s bony hip while he recounts his forays into recreational torture.

But yknow, it’s not quite so flashy, but every good comedy act needs a stooge. Pat’s perfectly content to play the straight man. Just hopes he’ll be able to carry the next act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS for:  
> \- M/M/F threesome, including vaginal and anal sex,  
> \- light bondage,  
> \- insults and humiliation,  
> \- orgasm delay/denial,  
> \- (roleplay of) transactional sex / porn acting,  
> \- (roleplay of) unequal power dynamics,  
> \- (mention of) marijuana use,  
> \- general mustache-induced ridiculousness. 
> 
>  
> 
> guyzzzz got a fabulous suggestion and this one jumped the gun in the list of next chapters. even worse, another great suggestion sidled its way in here for next one OH NO haha
> 
> edit a little sloppy 'cause im traveling.


	34. - lull -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat's got a few tricks up his sleeves. brian loves a good magic show.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _and you were no picnic / and you were no prize / but you had just enough pathos / to keep me hypnotized, hypnotized_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're like WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CHAPTER TITLES lol i am revising chaps but its a little slow going. mostly just fixing stray commas etc, so if you notice anything wrong in any chapter feel free to hmu.

 

> _“Notice how the air going in feels different than the air going out. Keep breathing, slow and steady, and match the lengths of the in-breaths and the out-breaths.”_

It started just with guided meditation.

Brian uses his app, but he likes meditation with his therapist better. He gets rather wistful about it, actually, when he’s keyed up and the app just isn’t doing it for him, and his appointment’s many days away.

He asked shyly if Pat would help him, and Pat doesn’t mind at all.

 

> _“Let your eyes rest on a spot in front of you. Somewhere comfortable, where you don’t have a strain or focus. Just let them gently fall on a spot that feels natural.”_

The first few times it goes okay. Pat tries a couple scripts from the meditation app, and Brian seems to like them well enough, even if Pat feels awkward as fuck. He gets the basic idea—focus on your breathing, feel your body parts, whatever. Brian’s patient and always grateful— _so_ grateful—

he says such incredibly nice things, actually—

_Pat, your voice is friggin’ perfect, I would just let you drone at me like that forever—_

that Pat feels inclined to put in some extra effort. To learn how to do this properly. Meditation expert he is not, but he’s always open to learn.

 

> _“In a few seconds, Bri, I’m going to start counting down from one hundred. And you’re going to listen to me counting down from a hundred, and every time I say a number, you’re going to open your eyes and fix them on that spot. And then I’ll ask you to close them again, and I’ll keep counting down.”_

He asks Brian what his therapist says, when they do guided meditation, and it sounds a little fucking intimidating. It’s all elaborate visualizations—flying like a seagull over a still blue ocean or whatever. Pat’s not gonna be able to pull that out of his ass. He’s okay at jokes but not so good at relaxing mind-pictures. He needs to see it done a couple times, so he can just crib ideas. So he figures he’ll sign up for a class.

 

> _“And as I’m counting down from one hundred, Brian, you’ll notice your eyes getting more and more heavy. It’ll be a nice, drowsy, pleasant, sleepy feeling. As I keep counting, it’s gonna feel better just to keep them closed—when it does, you should do that.”_

But how the fuck do you pick out a class? Basically you’re just picking out where you want to sit for forty-five minutes and let someone talk at you softly. Dyou pick based on how comfy the floor is? How nice the receptionist sounds? Can he just pick this cheap one in a bad part of town—or is there some danger that once everyone’s nice and comfy in lotus pose, some young hip grifters are gonna pinch all the wallets?

And these bios—is it perverted if you ask how old the instructor is? Because they all look fucking _young_ , and it’d be really, _really_ great if they weren’t a decade Pat’s junior. Fuck.  

 

> _“So as I start counting down, you’re going to open your eyes for each number, and close them when I tell you to. And when you’d like to keep them closed, you’re going to do that, and just let me keep counting down from one hundred. Ready?”_

At a loss, Pat asks Allegra, because she’s a good friend to have when you’re paralyzed with social anxiety and also she’s the only person he knows who goes out for yoga classes and spinning and stuff like that but isn’t _weird_ about it. She’s never done a class just on meditation before, she says ( _that’s why they invented Animal Crossing, Patrick_ ), but she’s interested. She says she’ll look for a groupon. She says they should go together, and if the whole thing’s too ‘woo,’ they can walk out and get pizza and laugh their asses off about it.

 

> “ _One hundred. Good. Now, slowly close your eyes. Feel how they are nice and relaxed. When I say the next number, you’re going to open them again very slowly. Ninety-nine…”_

Legs doesn’t mention it for a month or two, and he figures she’s forgotten, or shelved it with her collection of Weird Ideas Pat Has Had But Probably Won’t Follow Up On. But he’s wrong. She calls him on a Friday night.

“Hey Pat!”

She sounds—really cheery, the way she sounds when she’s dead tired, or halfway to wasted. Judging by the hour, he’d guess the latter, although sometimes they do go together, the two.

“Hey, Allegra. What’s up?”

“Did you still want to try, like, meditation or whatever?”

“Uh-huh. You found a class?”

“No but—I’m hanging out with my friend Tully who’s like, taken a _bunch_ of classes and is teaching me some shit right now. You should come over! We can be idiots together, if you want.”

“Sure,” Pat agrees. “Be right over.”

He picks up a sixpack on the way there, and talks himself down from feeling anxious. Because honestly this is probably the lowest-stakes way he could possibly imagine learning. Just trying some dumb shit out with Legs and one of her girlfriends. How bad could it be?

 

> “ _Ninety-seven, open nice and easy. Good. Now, close them again, slowly. Your eyelids are starting to feel soft and heavy, aren’t they? Every time you close them, let yourself feel more and more relaxed.”_

At Allegra’s, Pat finds out quite a few things.

First, he discovers he’s very good at estimating how drunk Allegra is on the phone. He figured she was halfway to sloshed, and he’s bang on the money, there.

Second, he finds out that Legs’ friend isn’t a girl named _Tully_ but some dude with close-cropped hair and a bright smile and a ridiculous nickname that sounds like _Tall-ee_ , because he’s, like, really really fuckin’ tall. His name’s actually Dan, he admits, but there were so many Dans back in school that he just elected to go with it rather than being _Dan B._ for the rest of his life. _And now everyone calls me Talley_ , he says, waving a massive hand in a lazy shrug.

 

> _“Ninety-six. Slowly open. Now just let them close down, get comfortable, go back to resting. Ninety-five…”_

Third, he figures out pretty quick that Talley-né-Dan isn’t into meditation _per se_ . He can do it, he says. He knows some good tricks. But he’s almost done with his coursework toward being a certified hypnotherapist, and _that’s_ what he and Allegra are mostly fucking around with this evening, slightly inebriated and _definitely_ not in a controlled medical environment.

Fourth, Pat learns some interesting what-beats-what information about his interior landscape of social anxiety.

Whatever. Fuck it. It’ll make a good story, anyway.

 

> _“Now let them close down. Your eyelids are getting heavier, more and more tired with each number. That’s fine. As it gets more comfortable, just keep them closed. If you want to, right now is fine. Ninety-three_ …”

Talley’s a nice enough guy. Laughs at Pat’s jokes, good taste in beer, doesn’t seem like he’s into crystals or homeopathic cures or anything. Still, Pat elects to watch him do his weird shit on Allegra first, because he needs to get down some more liquid courage before he gives in to Allegra’s whining on the matter of _please let him do it on you then I can waaaaatch I swear I won’t make you jerk off or anything_.

(Talley coughs, at that, and assures Pat that he’d never do anything that fucked up—

this makes Pat fucking _more_ nervous, because he’d assumed that the appropriate response would be

_oh I could never do anything like that hah hah_

and not a shy but somewhat supervillainous

_oh I will use my power for good don’t you worry_

but whatever. He’s a nice enough guy.)

 

> “ _Good boy. I can see that you’re very relaxed. Now that your eyes are closed, I want you to just keep listening to the sound of my voice. Notice how calm you are, how comfortable. I wonder if you can remember a time that you were very, very relaxed. So relaxed that you lost awareness of your body. Can you do that for me? Think of that time. When you were so warm and comfortable and snuggled in bed, maybe, that you could hardly bear to move.”_

Pat watches very closely, while Talley talks Allegra through a bunch of counting and breathing. It _is_ a lot like meditation apps, the guy wasn’t lying about that. He has a good, soft, droning voice, and a slow steady pace, and there’s a lot of focusing on breathing and all that jazz. It’s _pushier_ though. Lots of him telling her how calm and relaxed she is. Telling her to notice things. Starting sentences with _I wonder if_ … and soft suggestible things like that.

He pays special attention to the part where Talley describes the energy orb, because it’s kind of intricate, all the little muscles he tells her to relax and all the visuals that go with, and he figures that’s probably what Brian is looking for with his meditation sessions. It’s hard to remember all the details.

After a few minutes Talley chuckles a little and tells Legs she’s a tough customer, and he’s gonna have to try a couple more inductions. Then the weird shit really starts popping off. An escalator, a warm mist, visualizing a bed. No waving pocketwatches, at least.

 

> “ _Now Brian, to help you relax, I want you to imagine you’re sitting outside on a warm sunny day. You’re somewhere very safe and relaxing. You’re finding a comfortable place to rest and just allow any tension to just melt away from you. Notice how the tension is dripping out of your body and soaking into the earth.”_

Pat’s body has never fucking found a situation where it can’t embarrass him, though—

and of course, it’s _hideously_ fucking embarrassing—

some twenty minutes later, when Talley brings him out of that pleasant loopy state to tell him that unlike Allegra he is _of course_ very susceptible to hypnosis, in Talley’s professional opinion.

Legs laughs her _ass_ off (Talley chides her for it— _some people are like that it’s not funny_ —but she doesn’t look contrite) and her friend turns his calm lidded gaze entirely onto Patrick with intense and unsettling interest. Patrick is interesting, apparently. Talley’s never hypnotized anyone on accident before. Never clipped a bystander like that when they were watching him work on someone else.

Talley’s apologetic about the accident, but Pat can tell he’s very proud of himself. He has that look like Brian gets when he’s trying not to gloat, which is often, because Brian can do a lot of things awfully well. Well _shit_. At least his humiliation is helping this guy confirm his crazy career choices or whatever. The guy is tentative, when he asks if he might ask Pat a few questions...? Because it’d help him with writing a case study for class…?

Pat drains his beer, because his face is red to the roots of his hair, so might as well have some booze to blame it on, and he submits to questioning with a sigh and a _fire away_. Fuck it.  What’s the point of being a freak unless someone can get some interesting data on it.

 

> _“Now I want you to imagine that you’re standing at the door of an elevator. You can visualize any kind of elevator you like. In a few moments, I’m going to count down from ten, and you’re going to imagine getting in the elevator and going down. When I say the number ten the doors will open and you’ll step in, and as I count down you’ll go down the floors until I reach 1.”_

No, Pat’s never done this before. No, he’s never felt anything like that before. Yes, he’s meditated and he’s not good at it. No, he’s not a big daydreamer. No, he doesn’t have sleep paralysis. Yeah, he knows what ASMR is, and yeah, he gets it from things like this—

Allegra raises an eyebrow at that—

No, he didn’t have an imaginary friend when he was a child. Yeah, he writes creatively. No, he doesn’t think of himself as especially empathetic. No, he doesn’t have PTSD, as far as he knows. No, he’s never had a hallucination, except on drugs. Yeah, he gets dissociative episodes—

well shit, Legs is really getting the personal-revelation special tonight.

 

> _“After you step in, I’m going to keep counting down. And every number I say will be a floor that’s passing on the elevator. And every floor that passes, you’ll notice yourself feeling more and more relaxed. Each floor, twice as relaxed, twice as deep as before. Are you ready? ”_

Like every humiliating situation Pat’s ever been in, though, it’s not really _that_ bad, once everyone’s had a few and he’s pushed through saying yes to whatever stupid thing and figured out how to laugh at himself about it.

Talley’s effusively grateful about the homework help, and he’s patient with explaining the basic principles, and helps them practice hypnotizing each other and trying to fuck with each others’ heads. Pat tries _very_ hard to get some practice in—

because he’s fucking _definitely_ going to try this on Brian. This is the kind of thing that Brian would fucking _love_. He’s a wild little daydreamer. He likes when Pat talks to him, smooth and slow. And he loves altered states of consciousness as much as a kid loves candy.

Plus, Pat thinks he could stand being deeply _suggestible_ as long as he knows Brian is too.

When he leaves for the evening, stumbling drunk and laughing it off, he calls a lyft, makes a mental note to _never_ go to a stage magician show, and figures out how to broach the topic to the kid.

> _“Ten… nine… as you descend, you’re going deeper…”_

 

* * *

  
Of course, Brian’s game. Breathlessly _vehement_ , in fact, that they should try it as soon as possible. He immediately hopped into research on the subject—

different types of inductions and what’s the neuroscience behind it and what part is bullshit and all that—

and yeah, Brian finds the wikipedia page for _erotic hypnosis_ and then there’s no turning back. While Talley might have taken an oath or whatever not to do anything fucked up to his clinical subjects, Brian’s more of the _I solemnly swear I am up to no good_ type. He begs and begs.

And Pat agrees, because honestly, this is pretty fucked up in all the ways that he’s into, too.

 

* * *

 

 

They try a few different induction techniques, a few separate times. Brian finds he likes sitting crosslegged—it’s not recommended, but the kid is fuckin’ flexible, so screw what the guides say—and although the visuals help him get started, it’s all the counting and the breathing that really seems to trance him out. After Pat’s stepped him through tensing and relaxing all his different muscle groups, and told him a few dozen times how nice and loose and calm he feels—

he sneaks a few things in there like which are _decidedly_ off-script—

they count backwards together from one hundred in some weird way, and usually before they’re even down to ninety the kid’s breathing heavy and his head is dipping and the numbers fall away.

“You’re feeling very relaxed now, aren’t you? What a good boy you are.”

God, it’s beautiful, how soft and limp his body gets. Oh _Christ_ , Pat is a sick fuck. When they really start to hit on it, after multiple sessions of practice, and he can reliably get the kid’s head to loll like that—

well fucking _hell,_ it makes his dick twitch, all right? He’s not proud of it.

“I’m gonna pick up your arm, now, Brian. You don’t need to help me, just let it be completely relaxed and fall when I let it go.”

The kid’s so _still_ —

he gets like this when he’s tied up, too? is it the same kind of thing? this and subspace?

maybe, but he’s got no fucking clue how to ask Talley _that_.

Pat turns his limp hand over and kisses him on the wrist with no resistance whatsoever. He’s so _pliable_. Pat’s heart races obscenely when he lets the arm go and it just drops, no reaction, nothing.

Fuck _yes,_ he might have actually managed it, this time. Either that, or Brian’s playing along for the evening, which is honestly just as good, from where Pat’s sitting. He supposed he’ll only find out if Brian breaks character enough to giggle, and honestly, the kid’s pretty fuckin’ good at rocking a straight face.

So, well. Time to try out a few things.

 

* * *

 

(“What do you want me to do to you anyway, kid? If I ever manage to hypnotize you?”

“What do you _think_ , Pat,” he laughed.

“Knowing you? Probably dress like a pervert magician and fuck the ever-loving shit out of you,” Pat teased, tickled him.

“ _Pervert magician_ is redundant,” Brian sniffed, squirming in Pat’s arms. “Also, yes, um, that’s what I want? Or just whatever you want, really. I like sex, so. Yknow. Go wild. Not like I wouldn’t let you do it anyway.”

“What if I want to try something a little weird,” Pat says, nervously. He can’t help it. He _read_ —

Brian grins into his wrist. “Pat Gill, I give you blanket permission to fuck with my mind.”

“Well _that’s_ not—that doesn’t seem right—”

“I trust you,” Brian blinks up at him, all innocence, and then snorts. “And I literally fuck with you all the ever-lovin’ time.”

“I _am_ highly susceptible to your charms,” Pat admits, curling a hand around the kid’s head. “But I’m also a little fucked in the head, Bri. I have wicked thoughts.”

“Those are your _best_ thoughts,” Brian kisses up into him. “Fuck me up, Patrick. Do your dirtiest. I assume that the worst thing that’ll happen is you secretly train me to orgasm when I read the word _caterpillar_ or something.”

Pat blushes, because the kid no-scoped _exactly_ the direction his thoughts were headed. “I’d pick a sexier word than that.”

Laughter. “Just nothing to come up on stream, okay? Don’t pick _Waluigi_ , I’ll get fired.” )

 

* * *

 

“Now you’re very relaxed. You’re in a deep trance. When I ask you to do something, you’ll feel like you want to obey me. It’ll feel good, to do what I say. When I ask you to do something, you’ll respond _yes sir_ , and then you’ll do it. Tell me if you understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Acting or not, the kid’s little toneless obedient whisper is perfect, it’s perfect.

“Why don’t you take off your shirt, Brian. Wouldn’t that feel nice? Take off your shirt, now, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The kid unbuttons, splits it open directly, shucks it off. Pat can hardly decide where to begin, confronted with bare chest and loose limbs and a Brian who’s actually _quiet_ for once, just sitting patiently and waiting for directions, and it’s not even Pat’s birthday.

Where to begin? To touch him? No, no, to make him touch himself.

“Why don’t you play with your nipples, Bri? Just get your fingers a little wet first and then pinch them until they’re nice and hard for me.”

The kid mumbles his assent and complies. Licks his fingertips, slides them down his chest. Starts flicking and twisting his own nipples, although not with the type of show-offy brazen boldness he’d usually apply here. He’s just soft, obedient.

Pat reaches out and presses on his shoulder, but Brian continues, unperturbed, as the hands move from shoulder up his neck, across his cheek, to his hair. He shivers visibly in delight as Pat takes a fistful of hair, tips his head back, exposes his neck. He’s still playing with his own nipples obediently, but now is staring glassy-eyed up into Patrick’s face.

“What a good boy you are,” Pat murmurs, scratches his scalp slow and hard. Brian sighs in happiness. Kid fucking loves getting petted that way. Pat needs to remember to indulge him more. “I think you should suck on your fingers now, hmm?”

“Yes sir,” Brian says faintly, and immediately draws a hand up to his mouth, licks at his fingertips. It’s more innocent than usual, and Pat uses his hand to guide them deeper.

“Suck nice and _hard_ , baby boy. I want you to really fuck your mouth with your fingers. Close your eyes. Think about my dick fucking your face, all right? Think about how good it feels.”

The kid complies, thrusting more vigorously, jamming two fingers in hard and licking and sucking them with abandon. His little wet noises make Pat’s dick twitch.

“Can you feel me in your throat, baby? Can you taste me?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Brian offers, serenely.

“You’re such a good cocksucker,” Pat praises, and strokes his hair. This must be something like subspace, because the praise is spacing the kid _out_ , sending him into that little uncertain, floaty land he likes. He doesn’t even seem to feel Pat’s hand on his chest, makes no resistance at all to being pushed back onto his back, just makes faint whimpering sounds without opening his eyes when Pat pulls his hand away.

“Shhh, Bri. You’re done with that now. Lie very still for me, all right?”

Now’s the real test, Pat supposes. Brian’s never _once_ held still and really let Pat torture him, at least not without being tied down or pinched or screaming a stream of curses.

“I’m gonna edge you, baby,” Patrick says, voice low. “And you’re gonna stay still and quiet and concentrate on just how good it feels, yeah? You’re going to love it. You’re going to be so hard, _so_ hard for me, you’re gonna be dripping. And you’re not going to come. You’re just going to stay hard and beautiful and be good.”

Hmm. That little hitch of breath is suspicious, but Pat’s going to enjoy himself anyway, as long as it lasts.

 

* * *

 

Brian is _so_ good it beggars belief, actually. Pat takes his time, tastes skin everywhere he feels like, moving limbs apart and sneaking his hands under the loose body below him, brushing his scratchy beard in sensitive places and enjoying the little sounds it elicits.

The sounds are _pitiful_ , entirely pitiful, whimpers and gasps and soft moans. Whenever something particularly loud happens, up there, Pat pulls off gently and gets close to Brian’s ear and whispers the key to his wicked plot.

“ _Doesn’t that feel good, Bri? I want you to concentrate on how you feel right now. Exactly how it feels, how hard you are, how bad you want more. And when I come up behind you and put both hands on your shoulders and say the word cocktease, you’ll feel just like this again. All right?”_

Then he’s back to licking, and sucking, and teasing, and laughing against Brian’s shivering skin. God, it’s worth it, whether the kid is faking or not. He could do this all night.

 

* * *

 

“ _Please!_ ” Brian breaks out in a gasp at last, words on the inbreath like a diver coming up for air.

“Mmm,” Pat hums. His fingers are stroking lightly, other hand holding down the kid’s hip firmly to stop him from bucking. “But I’m so enjoying myself.”

There’s no response to that, just more squirming and strangled noises. God, this pretty picture of obedience. He’s gorgeous, sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed. He’s not as screwed up, as usual, when he’s fighting this hard—hands aren’t grasping at the blankets—face is admirably close to neutral—except all the little desperate sounds Pat keeps shaking out of it.

“I know you’re putting me on, baby boy.”    

An eyelid cracks, just a sliver. “I’m _not_ , daddy.”

“Mmmhmm.” He jerks hard, just once, and earns a little squeak of shock.

“ _Mean._ ”

“I’m impressed with you,” Pat admits, swirling his thumb around the tip for the dozenth time. “You had me going.”

“Shut up. I’m hypnotized.” Brian sulks, closing his eyes tight and flinging his head back onto the pillows.

Pat chuckles low. “Uh-huh. Shall I keep on, then?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Brian says emphatically, then after a pause, “sir.”

“All right then.” He settles back into his dark evil hypnotist voice and instructs Brian to suck his fingers again, to get them nice and wet and dripping. His boy obliges, a little sullenly, but hollows his cheeks and lets himself relax into his character again, lets his forehead uncrease. He always does better with teasing when he has something to concentrate on. That’s why it’s so delightful to tease him without it.

He whimpers when Pat gets up, leaves for just a second, to find lube.

“Shh. Be good now. Play with your nipples with your other hand.” The kid obeys, keeps sucking hard on his fingers. His face is ruddy-red but calm, eyelids closed.

He _jumps_ though, when Pat touches his dick with cold lube, but doesn’t whine about it. Probably just grateful for the touch, the brief feeling of pressure, that makes him buck his hips and moan.

“Now,” Pat says confidently, straddling the kid, knees around his chest. “Now finger me open, baby boy. Be _rough_.”

Brian pulls the fingers out of his mouth and doesn’t hesitate. He presses into Pat’s opening, which is tight and unprepared and it _yanks_ a moan out of him, ragged and wet. He lets himself sound it, for once, just how it is—lets it be raw and pained.

Another finger follows close on the last, and Patrick bends his head, buries his gasps in Brian’s hair, as the kid reaches carefully around his legs. He can’t see the expression, the thoughts, but he doesn’t _feel_ hesitation, just feels himself being handled straightforwardly, the fingers moving in and out and starting to spread.

“That’s good, kid,” he chokes out. “Now let’s take it to the big show. You’re gonna put your cock in me, now.”

He shifts his weight over the lithe little body—Brian’s withdrawing his fingers, using them to position the base of his cock—Pat rests his weight on his arms, lines himself up—Bri’s arm is on his ass, helping him—the kid’s eyes are open now, despite himself—fair enough, he’s _never_ seen Pat ride him, before—

“ _Ungh_ ,” Pat groans, as he lets himself down _hard_ , fast and hard, so that the pain and pleasure radiates, resounds up his spine, like the deep angry _boom_ of a good subwoofer, like clanging church bells, like a beautiful explosion.

He doesn’t know how much he’ll get, with how long he’s been teasing the kid, so he moves quickly, lifts up and _fucks_ down again, deeper this time. Brian _screeches_ and claws his fingertips up Pat’s arms, begging wordlessly “ _Oh please oh please oh please—_ ”

“You’re gonna fuck me hard,” Pat says raspily. “As hard as you can. And you’re going to last, baby. Do whatever it takes. As long as you can.”

The kid wrenches his eyes open, and the placid expression is long gone, replaced by something like wretched desperation. “You _have_ to bite me, Pat,” he begs. “Or choke me, or pinch me, or pin me, or _anything, anything, anything._ I can’t—I won’t—”  

“ _No_ ,” Pat growls. “You’re gonna wrap your hands around my waist and fuck me _good_ , and you’re gonna ask before you come.”

“Okay,” Brian’s openly weeping now, and it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful, to see him fighting the tears and placing his hands on Pat’s hips and starting to buck upwards, sharp and hungry and gasping for breath in between. Pat jerks down to meet him, and the force is _delicious_ , the pain and the relentlessness of it, like a rusty old rollercoaster at the county fair that really _should_ be decommissioned.

Brian comes in a matter of—it’s not _seconds_ , that’s not fair—but it’s only minutes, if that, before he’s screaming like a banshee and begging with tears down his cheeks to be allowed—

Pat throws his head back and laughs, because it’s too fucking late, kid, you can’t wait _that_ long—

but he lets it go, just this once, because he wants to kiss the tears off his cheeks and tell him he was perfect.  


 

* * *

 

 

Alas, all of Patrick’s plans come to naught. He _does_ try to sneak up on the kid and tease an erection out of him—

and it does _kind of_ work, he thinks, the first time—

but mostly Brian shrugs and grins and swears that it’s honestly not that different from how he’d feel any time Patrick came up behind him and put his hands on his shoulders and breathed into his neck dark whispers about him being a little cocktease.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Pat, I like it, and it’s hot as fuck,” he giggles. “Just not magic words, sorry. In case you thought you were giving yourself too much power. I dunno if any of this stuff really _works_ works.”

Pat groans. “I assure you it does, kid. Just ‘cause I couldn’t—like fuckin’ good job playing along, I guess, but—”

“I was _kind of_ spacey, that time,” Brian cuts in, explaining for the third time, exactly how useless Patrick is at this. “But mostly just like—it made me real calm, which was nice. Like meditating. Not so fidgety. And then you asked me to do things, and I did them, because,” he shrugs, “ ‘cause I like playing along? Sometimes. I prolly had more self-control, maybe?”

“You did,” Pat nods. “Or uh, I mean, possibly you’ve been holding out on me, all this time.”

“I would _never_ do a thing like that,” Brian giggles again, and Pat grimaces.

“Of course you would. Fucking hell.” Pat sighs. “I’m gonna give up, I think. You’re as bad as Legs. I couldn’t do a damn thing to her, either. Even when we were fuckin’ _blitzed_. She just stuck out her tongue at me.”

Brian pats his arm. “Maybe it’s just like, yknow, placebo or whatever. I might be too much of a skeptic.”

“I don’t think so,” Pat puts his hand over his face. “Or if so, I feel like a real tool. I didn’t think it would work. But I’m _highly suggestible_ , apparently, ‘cause it works on me really stupid well anyway.”

“Oh _does_ it now,” Brian curls around him on the couch, knees pressing into the side of Patrick’s thighs, turning his body so he can get one hand on either side of him. “You didn’t tell me that bit.”

“Allegra’s friend hypnotized me by _accident_ ,” he admits. “It’s, uh. Really weird, Bri. I think you’d know, if it worked.”

“What’s it feel like?” The kid still looks half-doubting, but his interest is turning up, now, that x-ray stare when he finds out something new about Pat— _anything_ new, especially medical shit like the fact that apples also sometimes make his mouth tingly, or exactly what antidepressants he’s tried, or that he had a surgery on his chest when he was seven where they fucked up all his little kid ribs and also he got a fuckin’ _awesome_ minibike as a Christmas present that year to make up for it.

“Uh,” he pauses, tries to remember. It’s a little hazy. “It doesn’t knock you out or anything. But it’s really confusing. Kinda like subspace, but more attentive. Like when you’re fucking exhausted and you’ve been up for two days and you’re too dumb even to go to sleep and someone just tells you like, ‘come over here real quick and do this,’ and you do it before you even think because you’re just so happy someone’s telling you what the fuck to do with your body.”

He shouldn’t tell Brian shit like that, he knows, because he knows what’s coming next. But maybe it’s kinda like Talley said. It only really works if you want it to. Doesn’t have to be all of you that wants it. But at least a little bit of you has to want magic to just _be real_ , for once.

“I gotta call Allegra,” Brian murmurs, eyes shining, approximately three inches away from Patricks’ face.

“God, do you really have to—I already do whatever you want, Brian, you know that.”

“I know,” Brian pets his face, tenderly, and gives a soft smile. “I just—I just want to _see_. That’s all. But I don’t have to, if it’s too—”

“No, no,” Pat tosses his head back in that futile, hopeless gesture of submission that he figures must really get Brian going, if his regularity for inspiring it is any indication. “If Allegra can make me forget the number seven, I guess you can too.”

“You forgot _numbers_ ,” Brian breathes, and his fingernails dig into Pat’s collarbone in an expression of what could be arousal, but is probably just scientific ecstacy. “What the _fuck_ , Pat, you have to tell me this shit. What did they do, to make that happen?”

“Please don’t make me worse at math than I already am,” Pat mutters. “Or at least put it back when you’re done.”

“Of course I would,” Brian frowns a little. “And I dunno if you should—that’s _freaky_ , Pat.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ tell me about it.”

Brian shakes his head, hard. “I wanna try. See if it works. And then if it does you’re not allowed to do it with random friends of Allegra’s anymore. What if they _hurt_ you?”

Pat laughs. “Oh, now you’re _jealous_? That they got something out of me you haven’t?”

“No,” Brian frowns a touch more, eyes flick just a little down, like when he’s about to have a sulk. A tell. Oh, _interesting._ He _is_ jealous. Patrick’s seen a lot of emotions out of this wild and wonderful maniac, but jealousy, not really, not like that, not that little sullen irresistible feeling Pat knows so well.

“Good,” Pat smiles, and finds it in himself to be a little shit, just this once. “ ‘Cause we were gonna meet up again, actually. Maybe in a couple weeks. Don’t worry about Talley, he’s a good dude. I’m just trying to—”

“I’m coming,” the kid declares, with a little hair flick. “Put it on your google calendar so I know when.”

“I’ll ask if you can,” Pat says delicately.

“I’m _coming_ , Pat.”

“Dunno. He was already pretty unhappy with two people. It’s kind of a one-on-one thing.”

“You are _not allowed to go without me_ ,” Brian gasps earnestly, and grips Pat’s shirt. “What if he _fucks_ with you. How are you possibly so calm about this.”

“He’s, like, a medical professional, Brian,” Pat makes his voice flat. “Or nearly. It’s all safe. Consensual.”

“You said you and Allegra got _wasted_ , Pat,” Brian is straddling him, now, hands on his shoulders, staring down into his face very hard and stern. It’s really adorable, how worried he is, and how much he’s trying to tie the ballooning flutters of jealousy down to worries that are more socially acceptable. “That doesn’t sound _safe_. How can you even consent, like that.”

Pat shrugs. “We had a few, yeah, but like. You don’t even believe in this shit, Brian. It’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll even work out some shit. I hear lots of people do it. Then I could stop bugging you and Simone so much.”

Brian worries his lip, at that, like he knows that might actually be a good idea, and yet he’s fucking _pissed,_ and he’s trying _really_ hard to hold himself back from being a complete jackass about it. Oh my fucking god it is _gratifying_ to see that look on another person’s face.

“I just worry, Patrick,” Brian sighs. “Really. Honest. Like, I dunno. I don’t believe in it but maybe you _are_ and if you—I just want to see? For my sake? At least for a few seconds. Or, I dunno, can you take a video or something?”

Pat strokes his arm and quirks a smile. What a good kid. It’s driving him up the goddamn wall, but he’s willing to compromise. He didn’t even know Brian would—well. It draws a little stream of happiness out of him, a trickle of something sweet that makes him guilty enough to let up.

“Bri,” he kisses him on the chin. “I love you, babe. And it’s fuckin’ beautiful, to rile you up. But you know me at least a _little bit_. Dyou really think I’d sign up to go have someone fuck with my head on purpose?”

Brian stares at him, a long moment.

“Oh you _asshole!_ ” He gets a slap, a _real_ one, that’s unusual, and it makes him laugh. “You freaked me the fuck _out_ , Patrick. I thought you’d—”

“Thrown you over for an evil hypnotist?”

“ _No_ ,” Brian sulks. “Just, that maybe he’d—you’d—I dunno. That he’d put weird thoughts in your head. To make you. Different. I dunno. Were you lying, that it worked on you?”

“No,” Pat sighs. “No, I really did forget how to add, kid. It’s really fuckin’ weird and I kinda hate it, but you can do it to me. Don’t call Allegra, though. Just learn it on Youtube, like you always do. I’ll die of humiliation if Legs knows more about my private life than she already got.”

“ _That’s_ my Patrick,” Brian sighs in relief, and rests his forehead on Pat’s shoulder. “I was scared they replaced you with a zombie.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Pat murmurs into his temple, kisses the little floaty hairs. “Couldn’t resist. Never seen you jealous before.”

Brian squeezes. “That’s just ‘cause I don’t let you out of my friggin’ sight, Patrick. No more secret sex cults or whatever. I can’t stand it. You gotta drag me along.”

“Guess that means my meetings with the astral projection club are straight out,” Pat muses. “Too bad. We were getting really good at tantric dream sex.”

“ _Shut uuuuup,_ ” Brian moans, and bites him, and giggles. “I hate you. You’re not allowed to be a brat. One brat per household. We’re full up.”

“Got it,” Pat smiles, and pets the little shock of sweaty hair. “I don’t take to it, anyway. I’ll leave it to you.”

“Damn straight. I do the sneaky stuff around here.” He punctuates that statement with a kiss that’s entirely too sweet. “And I _will_ learn it on Youtube, so there. You won’t be laughing when I have you under my trance.”

Pat sighs, and slots his thumbs around Brian’s hips. “You already do, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS FOR:  
> \- sex: anal sex, masturbation, edging, some rough sex  
> \- BDSM: D/s relationship  
> \- kinks: erotic hypnosis  
> \- trigger warnings: by the nature of said kink, a little consent wonkiness, but everyone's game here  
> \- language: smidge of nasty name-calling
> 
> thx for the _erotic hypnosis_ prompt, loyal commenter, it was interesting research! hope i didn't bone anything too badly


	35. (excuse me if i have some place in my mind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the One where Pat and Bri-an Both get High.
> 
>  
> 
> _freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose / nothin', don't mean nothin' hon' if it ain't free / and, feelin' good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues / feelin' good was good enough for me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: this one's fuckin' weird as shit. just like, tolerate this weirdness okay, porn will come back one day.

###  **SCENE I. Pat’s place. Evening.**

_Enter PATRICK and BRIAN._

Bri is surprised, when Patrick asks (all shy;  
and indirect as ever) if he, like,  
had ever tried to drop some LSD—

and would he ever do a trip again—

and if so would he take Pat with him, too?

In school it never was the case that he  
could be the cool kid with a source for drugs.  
No one would look at him and think  
_this dorky kid could get me some good shit_ .  
He looked approximately like a cop;  
a one-line extra role on Boy Meets World;  
about as worldly as an oyster.

Bri always was the friend of someone's friend,  
showed up to parties stone-cold sober and,  
well, he might bum something fun off someone cool  
(usually molly, but sometimes a tab—  
or something else a little more exotic).

So when Pat asks, it is bizarre and nice  
(it's flattering—it warms him to his toes)  
and he immedia'tly says yes. Although  
it prolly would be _wiser_ to say no  
(he's an adult now and these childish things  
(which fuck you up for like a day and more)

are just…goddamn _hard_ to hammer into the loping, workaday meter of adult life, okay?)

Still, when Pat asks, Bri's young heart flutters fast,  
and (come what may) he sets himself the task.

* * *

###  **SCENE II. Brian’s place. Saturday afternoon.**

_Enter PATRICK and BRIAN._

“You might not like me high,” Bri says to Pat,  
all casual smiles and modest shrugs (because  
he's really very pleased that he could find  
a friend who had a friend who had some tabs  
(and Jonah didn't even help, for once))  
while handing Pat the little blotter sheet.

"I've seen you high." Pat’s tone is skeptical.  
"If memory serves, I liked you _much_ too much."

A silly thing to say (in Brian's mind)  
because there is no law that says that Pat  
has to like Brian just some certain measure

(and if there were—Brian would smash that law all to hell because better to live in a lawless anarchic disordered wasteland than to obey a law like that).

“I don’t mean high like that. I mean like—tripping.”

“T’be honest, kid, I haven’t done that much,”  
Pat shrugs. “In college, maybe—not a lot.”

Brian rethinks his plans. He doesn’t think—  
he’s _never_ seen a Pat who’s really high.  
If Pat is out of practice, Brian needs  
to make sure he can keep things light and fun.  
Pat can get kind of dark when he’s just _drunk_ .  
_Fuck_ .  
They should have picked an easier thing to start…  
at least it’s not that fucking salvia

(the _absolute_ worst trip that Brian has ever had in all his mortal life he felt like the rhythm of his whole fucking brain was coming apart (he puked and also he cried (but he thinks that was mostly an emotional response to seeing God and finding him horrendously ugly)).

“You’ve done a hallucinogen before?”

Pat colors. “Run me through what counts, again…?”

“Mmm…Peyote. Acid. Shrooms. Any 2C’s.  
DMT. Salvia. Maybe ketamine?  
Or nitrous? Stuff like that.” Brian recites.

“I…definitely know what all those are.”  
His grin makes Brian feel warm and worldly-wise.  
“I’ve done some whippets. I’ve tried shrooms before,  
but didn’t like them much. That’s it.”

Oh _shit_ , this basically is Pat’s _first time_.

Brian feels like—

(he’s going to hyperventilate for sure, this is too much, too much pressure, he can’t possibly be in charge of this, what if it goes wrong, what if Pat has a _bad trip_ and it’s all his fault…)

the most important person in the world.

“Okay then. It’s like shrooms, but more intense.  
It’s really active. You, like, work your jaw  
a lot? And then the comedown sucks.  
It takes a while. Your jaw gets really tight.  
But it’s still great.”

               Pat brushes back his hair  
and makes a face. “I feel so dumb.  
Like I’m you’re lame kid brother.”

               Brian snorts.  
“You’re not. I’m not an expert, Pat.  
I’ve dropped, like, max, five times.”

Pat shrugs as if to say _that’s five times more_ _  
_ _than I have ever done._ “What’s the best part?”

“It’s sad, but…” Brian blushes. “Honestly,  
I think I just like hearing music best.  
With my eyes closed. It sounds so beautiful—”

He scrapes his brain for something more descriptive.

“Um—it gives everything like, this crazy _meaning_ ?  
Like, everything you see. And hear. It all feels so…  
like, carefully designed. Like it all fits  
into some crazy underlying pattern.  
It’s really something.”

               Patrick hesitates.  
“Shrooms made me feel really…alone.  
Like, stuck in my own head. Is it like that?”

“Not as much,” Brian assures. “It’s chattier.  
You’ll probably find me hilarious.  
I mean, that’s an objective truth.” He grins.  
“But this’ll help to make it totally clear.”

“Well, good,” Pat smiles back. “I’ll enjoy that.”  
He pauses and his face grows serious.  
“And thanks. I’d never try this shit alone.  
Or…with anyone else.”

               “That’s—like the nicest—”

“I trust you, kid.”

               And Brian feels his flush.  
“Jeez, way to keep the stakes high, here, Pat Gill.  
I hope I live up to it.”

               Shrug. “You will.”

 

* * *

###  **SCENE III. Brian’s place. The living room, and eventually the kitchen.**

_Open on PATRICK and BRIAN on the couch._

The two play games until the tabs kick in.  
Brian begins to worry if they’re duds  
(he always worries that, to be quite frank  
(‘cause one time they’d gone off, and didn’t work)  
but this time he worries especially hard)   
because this is Pat’s first time, and he wants it to be perfect.

When their fingers start to fumble with controls  
they know at least that _something’s_ going on.  
Pat laughs when Brian plunges off a stage  
(for the third time).

               It was intentional,  
actually, the plunging, Brian explains (because the death animation was so fucking _beautiful_ )  
and then he catches himself saying that  
and this _ah, okay, here we go Pat Gill._

He puts down his controller on the couch  
and stands up while his wits are still about him  
so he find the kitchen

               (ignore distraction, ignore distraction, yes everything is interesting and _yes_ the floor is very cool, but _focus_ , Gilbert)

               At the fridge  
he pauses for a moment, thoughtfully,  
aw fuck, he doesn’t remember what he was doing  
because he was thinking so hard about not getting distracted.

“Pat—what’d I get up for?”

               Pat tilts his head.  
“Is there...a way I’d know the answer to that?”

Brian snorts, because they _really_ sound like druggies,  
and Patrick laughs—

               —the laugh makes Brian laugh  
and then they’re just trading laughs back and forth for a second, tight with anticipation and spiraling joyous contagion just feeling _oh boy, it’s starting, and it’s at least going to be very interesting—_

—then Brian says “Water!” and he laughs again  
a laugh of triumph—the question has been answered  
and also he rememberèd the question  
and also he is keeping them on track  
and hydrated and happy and _hell yes_  
_you got this Gilbert_ — _just maintain. maintain._

Two bottles for two hands without a hitch,  
and Brian even remembers to close the fridge. 

 

* * *

 

###  **SCENE IV. Brian’s place. A room that is not the bedroom.**

_ PATRICK and BRIAN are still on the couch.  _

Bri likes to talk, when he starts to come up   
(and kinda all the time)    
and something’s set him off, he realizes,   
because he’s talking about like— 

—embodied consciousness and nerve endings and how much of your brain is dedicated to mapping your body image and so you can envision your  _ self  _ as in your hands or lips or your dick and not your head— 

Pat’s listening but not  _ listening _ , Brian thinks,   
(he’s tilting his head though, and god, how the hair shifts over his face—)   
because he doesn’t even react to “lips” or “dick”   
or say anything about nerve endings. 

He just responds “I like your hands,”   
and takes one in his own and turns it over   
palm-side up. 

“They’re fine, I guess?” Brian says, coming back into his body for a second. 

He doesn’t love his hands. The nail-biting,   
the callouses. They’re fine. They do hand things. 

Pat runs his thumb over the lines of Brian’s palm. It’s more fun to think about the thumb.

“I like yours better. You’ve got—really good hands. They’re perfect. Big and long fingers and strong and your knuckles are nice and  _ square _ .”

“Is that…desirable?” Patrick says, with effort.    
“For them to be…square?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Brian says firmly. “Trust me I’m an expert on hands.” 

Pat says something but Brian is thinking about his hand consciousness and not his face consciousness so he misses it

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, because if they don’t go now   
god knows when they’re going to remember to do it.   
“Did you drink your water?” 

“I don’t think so,” Pat confesses. They can’t find it though. 

So they conclude that either Pat drank it or something mysterious happened to it.   
And either way, it’s better to go to bed and get…into it?

 

* * *

###  **SCENE V. bedroom. Buttons.**

_ PATRICK and BRIAN _

woo boy undressing is  _ a task.  _ __  
Who the fuck put all these buttons on clothes.    
( __ Next time, Gilbert, wear something simple .)

Pat seems to manage it without issue though, because he’s even talking while Brian fights with buttons. About Brian, he’s talking. “Dyou think your brain is different than mine, Bri?”

_ Button.  _ Different how? It’s definitely different.

“—with music and singing and writing and everything—like what made you—”

The easy gestures are quite unlike Pat.    
Pat doesn’t gesture a lot.  _ Maintain, Gilbert _ .    
He’s only had two tabs, this should be easy,    
to focus his just slightly diagonal mind at what Pat is like right now (a.k.a. wildly incredible and his eyes are incredibly  _ wild  _ with energy and love and beautiful openness)

_ Maintain.  _

It’s worth the effort if Brian can just    
fix this one crystal moment in his mind   
how Pat is like on drugs. How readily he smiles   
and how the smile doesn’t sneak behind   
the rest of his face afterward.    
No microgrimaces, for once.    
It’s beautiful. 

“I am going to forget what I asked if you don’t answer,” Pat says

Ah shit. 

“Ask again,” Brian directs, and Patrick laughs and just says “What do you feel?”

“It’s not going to make sense,” Brian says firmly, because he’s lucid enough to know  _ that _ . 

“Okay. Well, say it anyway. What do you feel?”

“It’s like—” well, here it goes—    
“—like I’m a spider and I just weaved a spiderweb and you’re my friend and I’m leading you down the non-sticky silk parts but I’m really afraid you’ll wander off and get stuck.” Brian frowns. “And also like talking about spiders is the worst thing I could possibly be doing.”

Pat laughs. “Yes, no spider metaphors. Please.” 

“So tell me what you see,” Brian directs.    
“Start with the colors and then all the happy things you see.” 

The things Pat sees are just incredible

(his brain doesn’t put things together quite like Brian’s, it seems—not so elaborate or frenzied—Brian’s brain will do things like develop a new form of musical notation—or try to remember his exit line from every play he’s ever been in—or convince him it’s a good idea to try to play solitaire…)

but Pat just looks and looks and looks and tells Brian what he sees. 

* * *

 

 

###  **SCENE VI. a coral reef**

_ Enter BRIAN into PATRICK’S reef. _

the old ass popcorn ceiling’s nice   
nicer than brian thought it’d be   
especially when pat pulls him   
so they are pressed all side-to-side   
and shyly says he doesn’t know   
how to explain colors like this   
but he’ll try if brian wants.

they stare and stare   
and dip their hands into a coral reef   
and pat describes how the shimmering makes him think of water   
while brian reaches up and tries to touch the little fishes    
that pat’s is calling into his awareness

for a while it’s just that

the coral reef, the fish   
the swirling colors they don’t know how to name   
the soft hushed voices that make waves on the water.

* * *

 

###  **SCENE VII. a room that PATRICK is not in**

_ Enter BRIAN. _

Stumbling sweat-soaked to the bathroom on acid is never fun, Brian knows.    
This fact is stored in his brain firm even when the rest is unmoored.   
that’s why he didn’t take Patrick with him. Bathrooms are scary.

His first  _ real  _ trip, Brian took too much   
and it was fine until he had to pee   
and getting confused in the bathroom  _ mega- _ sucks    
(even if all the mechanics work out fine) 

the white walls and the tiles and faint vinegar-cleaning-urine-smell and the  _ mirror _ that is bad to look at but if you don’t look at who knows what it  _ looks like  _ and towels always look like they’re breathing just a little, like they’re weird little animals that we just have domesticated to stand very still so we can get dry and things might go  _ horribly wrong  _ if you don’t keep an eye on them and why are bathroom stalls so  _ small  _ anyway and why do they have the gap underneath and why— 

_ maintain, Gilbert.  _

He breathes in and out once, and shuts his eyes.    
This isn’t like that. A public stall. A dorm.    
This is his own damn house.    
he crinkles his toes on Laura’s fluffy mat   
and remembers good advice

_ it’s gonna feel weird, brian. just pretend _ __  
_ you’re acting in a play and someone skips a line _ __  
_ but you know what to do. you can cover it.  _ _  
_ __ just do whatever you’d normally do. 

he survives peeing and hurries back to pat as fast he can.

_ Exit BRIAN _ .

 

* * *

###  **SCENE VIII. bed. a moment of lucidity.**

_ Enter BRIAN _ . 

Pat startles up, when Brian comes back in. 

“Worried about me?” he smiles and Patrick nods,    
his face is utterly candid   
and god, Brian loves it, he loves it. 

he  _ throws  _ himself onto the bed with a little too much vigor   
and Pat says “ _ oof _ ” even though Brian’s pretty sure they didn’t touch at all. 

“I love you,” Brian exclaims, and kisses him    
and wonders how he possible could have remembered the water   
but not have remembered to kiss Patrick at least every fifteen minutes   
it’s a miracle they’re not both dead already from such deprivation. 

“What got you so excited,” Pat laughs   
as soon as he stops being smothered with kisses—some of which were probably bites   
judging by the way Patrick’s skin looks. Oops. 

“You missed me,” Brian glows   
and Pat laughs again. 

“I’m high,” he explains sagely. “And I forgot where you went. So that was silly.”

 

* * *

 

###  **SCENE VIIII. she walks in beauty like the night of starry skies and cloudless climes and all that’s left of dark and light meets in her aspect and her eyes**

pat is so  _ beautiful _ __  
dark stringy hair   
dark eyes with pupils wide   
dark freckle constellations on his back   
as the dawn fills the room   
and throws soft blue light onto his soft pink face

they smiled and touched   
and gazed into each others’ eyes  
and tried to have sex without laughing  
it was too hard to concentrate  
when each touch was like an explosion of stars

* * *

###  **SCENE VIIIII? that doesnt seem right**

you always think you're down  
and then you try to sleep

and you're like  _fuck_. 

Brian trembles for a moment, touches his eyelids  
'cause he can't figure out if they are closed

"You okay, kid?" Pat asks, and pulls him close

"Uh-huh," he says, 'cause even if he's not he knows he needs to say he is  
so Patrick doesn't get all scared for him.

"You were right about the jaw." Pat strokes his arm  
"It's driving me fuckin' crazy. Can you like, hurt yourself, from clenching it too much?" 

"I don't think so," Brian says   
and strokes his hand down the jaw in question and feels how terrifically handsome it is—  
he thinks about what it'd be like if he goes blind one day  
like from some terrible disaster (he's always thinking about shit like that  
(deafness is way scarier even though learning sign language would be awesome  
(he'd just  _have_ to learn some way to feel music)))  
and that it'd probably be fine, because he'd miss seeing patrick  
but as long as it's not the kind of cortical blindness that fucks with your visual memory he could just remember and touch a lot and he'd be okay really

"What's on your mind, kid?" Patrick says, and oh  
it's just not fair, that he came down first  
and that he looks and sounds so utterly normal  
when Brian's brain

              (hah brian's brain he remembers labeling that in his neuroanatomy class when they did sheep brains and his lab partner didn't even laugh cmon man at least appreciate my anagrams)  
  
when Brian's brain is still just fizzling a bit   
and can't quite fit back into the right rhythm

"I dunno," Brian admits. 

"Let's play something," Pat offers. "Something cute.   
I'll go and grab the switch." And then he does  
as easy and as quick as anything. Sigh. Maybe pat's better at this than brian bargained for  
he'd been a little worried pat would freak out   
but pat really didn't, as far as he could tell  
just enjoyed himself  
or kept it together well enough to pretend he was enjoying himself  
probably not that one though  
it's fuckin hard to pretend when your brain is trying to sift through like  
the scrambled sand painting that reality's become

"Got it," Pat's back, and smiling, and so tall  
and warm and dark and sweaty and good to touch  
" 'kay, what's that cute game you were trying to foist on me?  
the one with all the—you know—fuzzy shit  
'Cause fuck it. Since my guard is down. Let's try." 

Brian giggles and clicks it with his finger and he's so, so happy that he's here, that he got to do this with Pat, that Pat got to do this for him, and that he gets to come down nestled in Pat's bed with his back against Pat's chest and Pat's arms wrapped around and Pat just balances the Switch in front of them on both their knees and tries to play (he's not very good) and Brian just watches him and nuzzles close and tries to remember how sleeping works.

* * *

###  **SCENE VIIIIII.**

eventually you come back to yourself  
'least, that's the hope. or possibly you just  
come back to some adjacent self whose life  
is close enough to the one that you left.   
  


"thank you, pat gill," a sleepy brian offers up into oblivion but before he even listens for the answer

 

  _FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> drugs: LSD, mentions of other hallucinogens (mostly posi vibes)


	36. - move --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat hates to move. simone hates being moved. brian is constantly moving. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _i ran my mouth off a bit too much, ah what did i say? / well you just laughed it off and it was all okay / and we'll all float on okay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of emotions in this one, including anger and insufferable sweetness

“What’s wrong, Patrick,” Simone grunts, and shoves his shoulder.

Pat sighs and brushes his hand through his hair. “Sorry. Not trying to be difficult.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” her fingers tap along the keys, not depressing them, just rattling them light and impatient. The sound grates his nerves. “Just tell me if we should finish this tomorrow. You’re no help when you’re like this.”

This is true. He’s pushing through uselessness, trying to find amid the clutter of annoyance and frustration and exhaustion the shreds of good ideas that usually emerge at least a _little_ when he gets  to work. Not this afternoon, though. He’s shoving his brain down into the dry well, scraping the sides as he tries to dip for _something_ usable.

“Sorry,” he says again tonelessly.

“What’s up, Patty,” her voice gentles, gets soft. Well, soft, for Simone. But there’s no one else in the room, anyway. “Do we need to set up a little date?”

“Actually,” Pat pulls off his glasses and presses his forehead. “Can we set up several?”

Simone quirks a little smile. “Gosh, that’s a lot of planning for you, Patrick. What dyou need?”

“Maybe to keep some boxes at your place.”

She looks confused, which is fair. He’s asking this all—absolutely backwards. He’s just—

scattered, right now. And he doesn’t like to ask for this kind of thing. And it all comes out wrong.

“Sorry. I’m getting kicked out of my fucking apartment.”

“ _Shit_ ,” she says, loud and bright—it’s kinda nice, to hear her be so shocked, actually. Simone’s really great about reactions—though he’d love if the whole office couldn’t hear it through the walls but ah well. “What the _fuck,_ Patrick?! Why?”

“The guy’s selling the building.”

Her face is twisted up and she’s got her hand on his shoulder, turning him forcefully to look at her. “So they’re hiking your rent?”

“No,” he says, putting a hand on her wrist, because he’s glad she’s upset for him but he’d rather she not shake the story out of him physically, at least not _right now_. “Literally kicking me out, Simone. I guess the buyer’s gutting it. So I’m out on my ass.”

“That’s _illegal_ ,” Simone is screeching. “That’s fucking crazy! They can’t _evict_ you.”

“Yeah they can.” He wants to sound angry, he does. But—

well, it’s his own damn fault for not reading his lease—

or more like _reading_ it but paying attention to the bits about weed but not the _exclusion of liability_ clause or whatever the fuck—

he’s angry, on and off, but right now he’s mostly just exhausted by trying and failing to un-fuck himself for the past couple weeks. “It was in the lease. Thirty days’ notice.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Simone barks, and it’s satisfying, how sharp that syllable cracks off her lips, how it echoes through her elbow, pushes into his shoulder with a little jerk. She’s so physical. It’s cathartic, even just the touch. Maybe he _should_ let her shake him. “That’s, like, fucking _no time_. What the hell are you supposed to do with only a month to find a place—”

He grimaces. It’s… what, Tuesday? “Actually, it’d be twelve days, now.”

“Oh you are _fucked_ . There’s no way _._ ”

He snorts. “Thanks, Simone.” She pushes off him, lets go. He shoves his glasses back on. “So yeah, I might be…well. Annoying the shit out of Brian and Jonah and Laura for a bit. But their place is pretty crowded. So if I can stash some stuff at yours, I’d owe you one…?”

It makes him a little nervous, even asking that. Simone’s place is tidy and it’s private and it’s _hers_ . She eats the cost and the commute, to live somewhere by herself that’s got a little class, got a nice bedroom and a kitchen table, and space for her to de-stress and _not_ be tripping over other people and their stuff and their hearts and their bullshit, all the time.

“Fuck that,” she announces, pushing a hand on the middle of his chest. “Just stay with me, you ass. I’ve got more space.”

Pat huffs out a breath, surprised. “I’ve got a lot of shit, Simone.”

“Nah,” she waves her other hand. “You don’t. Shove your shit in like a dozen boxes and bring it over. And your cat, you idiot. You can’t take him to Brian’s.”

“You don’t even like cats,” he points out.

“I like cats _fine,_ Patrick. Charlie’s fine.”

He looks down at her warily. “I don’t want to bother you. This is—I might not even need it, Simone. If I get my shit together in the next week—”

She rolls her eyes. “Then whatever. But don’t be stupid. You can go sleep at Brian’s, but don’t make your own fucking life harder, you dipshit.”

Pat continues to hesitate. He hasn’t imposed on Simone that much in… a good long while. Of course, he’s slept over many nights. After drinking, after sex, after a bad day. She doesn’t mind entertaining him, even when he’s in a full-on sulk, because then she can just light her incense and huff and beat him at video games until she finds his grungy mood tolerable. _Long-term_ stay will probably drive her wild, though. Simone doesn’t do dating. She doesn’t do roommates. She likes her _space_.

But she doesn’t seem annoyed by the prospect of him staying with her. In fact, she’s looking up fondly, expectant, that way she does when it’s something that she actually _wants_.

“You really won’t mind?” Pat says, softly, “me being in your hair for a bit? I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to figure out where to move. Hopefully not long.”

“I really won’t mind,” Simone presses her fingertips in. “I’ve got space for your boxes. And for you.”

Pat’s shoulders loosen tension he didn’t know they had. “ _Thank you_ , Simone. God, I hope I end up not needing it at all. But thank you.”

 

* * *

 

As the week drags on and it becomes clearer that Pat _will_ need a place to crash at least for a couple days, his mood deteriorates. Moving is such a fucking pain, boxing and packing and getting rid of the weird detritus of modern life. Pat’d thought he was spartan in his needs, having only the bare essentials in his little studio. Turns out, when you try to cram the _essentials_ into 16-inch boxes, you have way too many doo-dads and criterion collections and books and controllers and fucking useless pieces of trash.

He mostly doesn’t let Brian help with packing. Packing is fucking tedious and frustrating, and it puts Pat in a sour mood that he doesn’t want to inflict on anyone else. Plus, Bri’s not good at things that have a lot of potential for distraction, especially things that involve touching Pat’s personal possessions and possibly wringing out of his sweaty, tired boyfriend stories of where this or that thing is from, and trying to convince him not to throw it away.

So Pat banishes Brian to hang out with Simone. “Go butter her up, kid,” he shoos. “I need to be in her good graces so she doesn’t make me sleep on the couch.”

“I can’t _believe_ you’re staying with her instead of me,” Brian whines, although he’s _mostly_ putting it on, Pat thinks. Brian understands, he hopes, the reasons. Making three entire people trip over all his earthly possessions for god-knows-how-long would be, to Pat, a special kind of hell, and that doesn’t even touch cat introductions.

“She’s got the space,” Pat shrugs, “I can still come _sleep_ with you, kid. But I just have a place to crash when your roommates are fuckin’ sick of me.”

“Fiiiiiine,” Brian sulks, again that not-quite-serious-overwrought sound that makes Pat curl him into his arms and fake-soothe him. “She’s all _excited_ about it, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Pat grins. That’s what sold him on doing it, for real, actually. Simone is a private person, but she’s also an opportunist. The idea of having a live-in servant is a fantasy of hers. She can torture him however she wants, and he has to drag his ass back home no matter what. She whispered as much to him, in dark mischievous tones, while he was resting from bringing things into her place.

 _Oh Patrick, you’re not going to bother me,_ she trilled in honey-soft whispers, punctuated by ugly cackling laughs. _I’m going to get my money’s worth from you, mm?_

“She’ll gonna play with you the _whole time_ ,” Brian bites his lip. “Why do _you_ get a fun sleepover.”

The kid goes off to whine at her, so Pat can fucking finish packing—

he does manage to finish, eventually—

but it turns out that sending him to Simone was, perhaps, a mistake?

 

**Today 11:38 AM**

 

**SLEEPOVER TIME!!!!**

**What does that mean kid**

**simone said i could come too** **  
** **as long as im good**

**Oh dear lord**

  


* * *

  


Simone lays out some _ground rules_ with her boys, before they come over in earnest.

Do the dishes. Don’t talk about work after midnight. No shoes in the house.

Her list of rules is rattled off like a drill sergeant, and Pat smiles softly to himself. She really is delighted about this. She likes her privacy, but she also likes _giving instructions_. The threat of punishment for misbehaving hovers above her statements like a delicious treat she’s promising herself. She’s almost dancing with the joy of it.

Pat curls her into his arms, rests his chin on her shoulder, and tries to stoke the fire of her excitement. “Y’know, Simone, you can tell me to do whatever you like. I’m gonna be homeless. Desperate. I really need to keep you happy.”

“Ooh, daddy, stop the dirty talk,” she smacks him. “You’re tempting me.”

“Be tempted,” he breathes, sultry. “Indulge yourself with me. I _need_ you to stay interested. I’ll do whatever you ask. I have no choice. You’re so kind, for letting me stay, ma’am. I’ll do anything to deserve it. You can use me however you like.”

Her hand flips through his hair, tugging, tugging. “ _Aiee_ , boy, you know just how to turn me on. I didn’t do it because—of that—but if you’re _offering_ —”

“I’d like it,” Pat kisses into her. “Why not play something longform. It’ll…” he hesitates. “It’ll make me feel better, to know you’re having fun. And you’ll have an outlet, if you get frustrated with me.”

“I guess you have Brian’s house if I punish you _too_ hard,” Simone muses thoughtfully. “What should I do with him?”

Pat shrugs. “Search me. He just doesn’t like to be left out. He’s good at following orders, though.”

Simone grins so _wickedly_ that it’s hard to avoid the pull of interest in his gut. “He _is_ , isn’t he.”

  


* * *

  
  


Simone rolls out the Rules of her little game—Brian calls it _Simone-Says_ and laughs at his own joke—but really it’s a bit more like truth-or-dare. Or perhaps dare-or-else.

Each day, Simone whispers something into each of their ears, usually before they’re even out of bed. Pat gets good at taking in deliberate and wicked instructions, even when half-asleep.

 _Jerk off under your desk today,_ she hisses on the _first fucking day_ . And she demands _proof_.

 _Walk down to the sex store at lunch,_ she mouths against Pat’s skin on the second day, pressing cash into his palm like a whore she’s giving an advance. _Buy a dildo for me._

 _Wear something pretty for me, boys,_ she flirts before leaving them alone, the third day. _Make it good_ . 

At the end of the day, she drags the two boys in front of her and crowns one of them the winner.

It’s almost always Brian. Sometimes Pat loses because he couldn’t work up the nerve...other times, he just doesn’t manage to do it with as much _aplomb_ as the little vixen he’s competing with. Brian’s proof is better. His dildo is bigger. He didn’t just wear cute underwear—he put on _fishnets_.

Simone awards the winner with chinsy little dollar-store metal bracelets, thread-thin, to adorn his wrist. It’s five days before Pat even gets _one_ , and even that’s more of a consolation prize. It’s clear that Simone is being unfair on purpose. There are some things that Pat can beat Brian in—but she never says _don’t cry_ or _don’t touch yourself_ or _reach this thing on a high shelf_. She sticks to things Brian’s good at—boldness, style, and sexy-prideful flirting.

Honestly, Pat kind of appreciates it. He’s been on edge for weeks, and it’s nice to have a solid excuse to be frustrated, a reason to lose his temper fussily in the evenings at the injustice of it all. Plus, the loser gets tortured in interesting and exotic ways, and Pat can’t help but be impressed by the depths of Simone’s depravity, for the umpteenth time.

 

* * *

  


“It isn’t fucking _fair,_ Simone. He’s done this shit before.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Patrick. You don’t have any excuse.” She pets Brian’s hair tenderly. He’s also on his knees, but curled up at her side instead, leaning against her leg and pressing his temple into her thigh. She’s got his wrist jerked up over his head, studiously inspecting his handiwork.

“What a good boy,” she purrs. “So pretty. I love them. Will you redo Patrick’s for me? He really did a wretched job.”

Pat scowls. “The left hand’s okay. How the fuck are you supposed to—”

“Hang on a sec, baby,” she scratches Brian’s head, and eases him off her leg. “Let me remind pattycakes of something real quick.”  

Brian presses a knuckle into his mouth nervously, as he watches her stalk over and grab Pat’s shirt, yank him up hard. He gets one foot under him, bended-knee, but doesn’t stand. She wouldn’t like that. She likes him close enough to hit but far enough that she can tower over him—she’s good at body work, she knows how to move fast and certain and unexpected, and she’s not afraid to knock you around a bit on her way there.

Her fingernails find purchase, _dig_ into his hairline, pulling his head up. He leaves it there, tipped up, even when she lets go to swipe his glasses off his face. He flinches, though. He usually goes for—flat, unbroken, colorless expression—as if whatever she’s doing is just shy of _boring_ —he thinks it hypes her up, makes her push harder—plus it comes natural. But lately he’s been exploring just a hint of—

well, that little wide-eyed nervous look Brian favors—

he knows he’s a poor posture at it, just shades his expression a little more open than he might otherwise—

but it seems to hype her up in a different kind of way that he finds new and quite fun.

“Don’t you fucking dare give me lip,” she growls, and shakes him. “You’re a goddamn embarrassment. The boy has no fuckin nails at all and his still look cuter than yours. You didn’t even _try_.”

“I did,” Pat puts out, and it’s hard not to smile, at Brian’s little gasp.

Her slaps are, as always, superbly aimed. She loves to raise a little color in his cheeks. He sees it on her, her smug self-satisfied expression. It’s almost winking, how delighted she gets. Simone fucking _loves_ an audience, particularly one as animated as Brian can be.

“Please, ma’am—”  

she looks up, sharp, in Brian’s direction—

he bites his lip. Fuck, he’s just so _cute_. Pat can never compare.

“—I can redo his, if you like?”

She sighs, long-suffering, and lets off slapping for a moment, grabs his chin instead. “Fine, fine. Go get what you need. Stuff’s under the bathroom sink.” Her thumb digs in. “Pink, I think. I’ll leave the rest up to you.”

Brian scrambles off, delighted, distracted by the chance to choose the color.

Simone puts her blood-red lips an inch from Pat’s nose, tightens her grip, drops her voice. Theatrical, she’s so fucking _good_. “You’re going to hold nice and still while he does them for you,” she taunts. “You’re going to bend right over that desk and take it still and quiet as a churchmouse. And you don’t want to know what happens if you fuck up.”

She’s _relatively_ merciful—

both with her interpretation of how still is _still enough_ —

and with her choice of strap-on—

and Brian only fucks up one or two and has to redo them, apologizing profusely. The cotton-candy pink is not as embarrassing as Pat figured it would be, mostly because Brian coos over how nice it looks and strokes his hair and whispers _thank you for being so good_ while Simone yawns boredly and scratches her fingernails down his back. It makes Pat feel a little pampered, honestly, all the attention, even though he has to stay on the floor for quite some time waiting for it to dry while Simone praises Brian and fucks him and makes him quite spoiled with touching and kisses. 

 

* * *

  


By the second week, Pat has two good candidates for apartments, and Brian has a collection of bangles that jingle when he walks. It has a kind of bohemian look, when he starts putting them on his ankle instead.

Simone’s been upping her game, too—

Pat reckons she’s become distracted by just how hard it is to find the kid’s limits. Besides the few that Patrick knows—

 _no pictures, no videos,_ he told her sternly, _he_ _doesn’t like that_ —

it can be hard to guess where, exactly, Brian’s going to _stop_ . He easily acquiesces to public embarrassment, to pain, to silly outfits, to almost any toy. Stuff that’s torture to Pat is almost a reward for him, which makes Patrick’s life kind of difficult, but makes Simone just straight-up frustrated _._

After the nails and the girly panties and all that, she digs a nail in and commands, _why don’t you little whores go get something pierced for mama—_

and Pat understands that tone, understands that she’s tired and angry and wants the fun of punishing the fuck out of them, probably with something thematically appropriate—

 _Jesus_ , she would probably be into needles, wouldn’t she, fucking hell—

but Brian actually  _does_ it, of course, without a hitch, comes back with a beautiful little stud in the upper shell of his ear and fucking apologizes for it because he thought she probably meant his nipples but he wussed out.

Simone is _captivated_ by his obedience—

Pat gets it, he really does. He remembers when he first realized that Brian would do _anything_ for him, and how intoxicating it was to push him hard. He watches Simone with a little half-smile as she kisses Brian’s face with utmost tenderness and strokes his hair and fondles his dick and tells him how beautiful he looks, how good and sweet he is, how perfect a boy his is for doing just precisely what she asked.

He glows, Brian really _glows_ , and arches back on the bed with overwhelmed delight, and stammers out his many sweet soft thank-yous.

“I’m going to fuck you so nice,” she declares, trailing a hand down the center of his chest. “How many times do you think you can come, pretty thing, before it stops being fun for you?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Brian says with his warmest shyest gentlest little voice. “As many as you like.”

Pat, on his knees with a dictionary over his head, groans and rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, Patrick,” she scolds, without looking at him. “Or you’ll get the thesaurus too.”

Brian doesn’t beg for mercy on his behalf this time, too distracted by the way she’s taking him apart. He was _made_ for this, Pat thinks. Made to soak up her delicious evil loving patter, her hissed sinful whispers of _oh my god you’re such a perfect slut you gorgeous little thing_ while she feathers her hands along his dick and holds him down by the neck.

Pat can’t hear what she whispers at him, when she delves closer to his ear, drops into an even more wicked register, but he sees the writhing and hears Brian whimper eagerly _yes, yes, oh please, yes, I’ll do anything,_ and wonders what she’s promised him, and if she’s just going to take _anything_ as a sort of blanket statement. Dangerous, with Sim. But Brian loves danger.

“Go clean up then, baby,” she smiles, and taps him on the cheek. “Get ready for mama. I promise it’ll be everything you want.”

He scurries off to shower without so much as a _glance_ at Pat.

“You’ve really seduced the shit out of him, Sim,” he barks a laugh. “Good on you.”

She crooks a smile. “He’s pitied you too much this week.”

“Uh-huh. So do I get to put this down, or…?”  

“Oh no,” she giggles. “No, Patrick, you don’t. I wanna push him a little.”

“By pushing me? Seems hardly fair.”

“Oh c’mon, you’re a big tough guy.” She trails a hand across his straining shoulders. “I think you’ll have some fun, if you do it my way. Get to see him really over a barrel.”

“Appealing,” Pat says dryly, “except the part where I’m the barrel.”

“You’re so _good_ at it, though,” she compliments, tweaks his nipple. “I know you baby. You can stand a lot, can’t you? Don’t you wanna see him get what he wants?”

“What’d you promise him, Sim.”

“He asked me last week.  _Oh please ma'am, will you both fuck me again?_ I told him only if he's extra good. ” She’s fucking _resplendent_ in her wickedness, her wine-red bra and curving, evil lips. She’s turns away to look through her drawers, but he can still see the smile, in his mind’s eye. “And hasn't he been good, darling? So very very good. I want to make him happy. I think he’d like it even better if you tied him up first. Just a couple knots, to keep his little fingers out of the way. Don’t you think he’d like that? Squirming, getting fucked, me telling him what a beautiful whore he is?”

“He’ll die of happiness,” Pat sighs. “What’s the catch.”

“Well how _dare_ you,” she turns, puts a hand on her hip. “No catch. I’m a very honest lady.”

“Sorry ma’am,” he says contritely, and waits for it.

“Damn right you’re sorry,” she shakes out her cat o’nine, and he stifles a wince. “I’m _very_ truthful. Now we all know where the night is going. If you both have the endurance to get there. I think you will, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighs, and tightens his grip, and drops his head. “I’ll do my best.”

“Aw, honey,” she murmurs, and taps his shoulder—it makes him flinch, ‘cause he was ready for something else, but ah well— “you’re such a sweetie. I fucking love to torture you. I bet you won’t even yell, will you? So your boy doesn’t get in trouble for stopping me.”

She knows him _so fucking well._ He nods into the floor, feeling himself slipping a little into that comfortable daze of long-suffering endurance. That place he goes when Simone ghosts her fingers  _right_ over a bruise, right in the middle of a meeting. A bruise that she put there. She gives him a few seconds, usually, to get himself in order before she presses down. 

Her hands play with his hair. “I’ll be merciful. We’ll do all the really nasty hitting while he’s showering, all right? In case you cry like the little bitch you are.”

“Thank you ma’am,” he sighs, and bites his lip _hard_ so he won’t scream.

 

* * *

  


Eventually, Pat signs a lease, and the last few days before move-in go by rather quickly and with far fewer bruises than Pat expects. He suspects that Brian starts throwing the matches—

maybe because Simone tells him to, maybe because he’s trying to be nice, maybe just because Pat secretly enjoys watching him win, and Brian enjoys fucking with Pat's plans.

It turns out watching Brian lose is just as enjoyable, though. He fucks up dinner—not by doing a shitty job, like Pat would do— but by burning it so spectacularly that they set off the fire alarm and have to order takeout

(Simone makes him eat without any hands while she pets Pat’s hair and feeds him dessert)

and he fails at picking up a few things at the drugstore for Simone

(she makes him take cold showers for three days, which he fucking _hates_ , and bitches and moans so bad she smacks the shit out of him)

and he can’t manage to keep his mouth shut for a day—

(probably that shit wasn't intentional, actually) 

but he still cries and pleads while she works a bit gag into his mouth and tells him he can try to talk around that for the evening. He does, of course, manage it, but he’s adorably frustrated by how hard it is to make himself understood, and Simone of course taunts him and has Pat suck him off and torture him worse.

All in all, it’s a fucking _wonderful_ vacation from any decision-making—

exhausting in its own way, but also entirely relaxing. He doesn’t have to do a damn thing for two whole weeks. Doesn’t pick what to eat for dinner, or when to go to sleep, or what he’s up to each evening. All he has to do is float through Simone’s web of mysterious motivations—

watching Brian triumph and tumble so disastrously—

and get his ass beat occasionally, or hold very still, or beg for mercy as Brian slowly fingers him open.

Overall it’s just so _easy_ -floating cheerful to let her call all the shots. Little tiring, but she sure has fun.

 

* * *

 

Brian and Simone help him move all his shit into the little fourth-floor walk-up in Soho he’s settled for. It’s not perfect—the stairs are gonna be a bitch, and the bedroom’s not even got a window, just four white walls and no closet and barely space for a bedside table—but it’s _got_ a bedroom, and a living room, and the kitchen is a surprising indulgence, a nice space with a counter and dated cabinetry.

“Pat! You have a fireplace!” Brian gushes when he first makes it up all the stairs toting a box.

Pat laughs. “Nope. Just a place where one would go. Sorry, kid.”

Brian sticks his head in the alcove, grins. “Whatever. Fake fireplace. This exposed brick is awesome.”

Pat doesn’t own _that_ much, really, so it only takes a few exhausting hours of dragging stuff up to get it all in. Brian starts to whine pretty quick, but he carries his weight anyway. Pat thanks them profusely and buys them beer and pizza and tells them he’ll take care of arranging furniture and shit don’t worry just relax and he’ll get the netflix going.

“ _Fuck_ no,” Simone barks. “It’s only five. We’re eating and then we’re _finishing_ this.”

Pat’s _hideously_ grateful, actually, because sorting out movie posters and lamp placement and all that isn’t really a strong point of his.

Whenever you move in New York, your furniture which was carefully chosen to cram into one small space is suddenly ridiculous in the next one. Simone and Brian patiently juggle shit around—his couch is too small, now, desk is too big—now he’s got room for a bookcase—no more built-in shelves, but who says only kitchen stuff has to go in kitchen cabinets, anyway.     

Simone has one of her yellow legal pads out, makes him a list of shit to get. She wants to help him choose it, but he declines, ‘cause he knows she’ll scoff at his preferred haunts: craigslist, goodwill, and failing all else, ikea. She huffs and gives him very specific instructions— _okay_ _you need a lamp here, something tall—god you need the world’s skinniest wardrobe, huh—you should get a bar cart! it can go right here—get a real heavy padded bench, it’ll fit here and it’s versatile._

They finish late—around ten or eleven—and crack a bottle of champagne and toast and take turns showering—  

_bring me a shower beer, Patrick!_

and finally clean and exhausted they crowd into Pat’s bed and chat about the relative merits of the new place.

“We can _really_ cook in here,” Brian gushes about the galley kitchen. “You’ve got a gas stove. And a proper vent. And, like, we won’t be crawling all over each other.”

“Believe that when I see it,” Simone dismisses. “Bummer there’s no bath, though.”

“Sim, I haven’t taken a bath since I was a kid,” Pat laughs. “Do people actually _take_ baths?”

“Uh, _duh,_ Pat, where do YOU use all your candles?” Brian scoffs. “I _know_ I’ve given you candles.”

“I save them for a blackout like a normal person.”

“Oh my god you are saving my sandalwood for the apocalypse?! You weirdo!”

“Speaking of, it’s gonna get _really_ dark in here when you close the door,” Simone observes. “No windows. Wild.”

“Uh-huh,” Pat nods. “I honestly don’t think it’s supposed to be a bedroom. Landlord was _very_ picky about calling it a _studio-apartment-with-a-den_. Prolly so his ass doesn’t get sued.”

“Aha. Clever.” Simone pauses. “If you tie Brian down in here and shut the door he’s gonna get _very_ bored very quickly. You could really give him something to think about.”

“Simoooooooooone,” Brian whines. “You can’t do that—you’re trying to _kill_ me that’s not _nice_ —”

“I’ll get a baby monitor,” Pat teases, and Brian smacks him.   

“Actually,” Simone turns over on her belly, sits up on her elbows. “You put a chain on this bed and he’ll have enough slack to reach the bathroom and the bed and the kitchen. No way to mess with us fucking in that glorious living room. Or yell for help out a window. We could really make a weekend out of that.”

Brian pouts. “I’ll learn how to pick locks.”

Pat strokes his head. “I wonder how fast you can learn, with the right motivation.”

He whimpers. “Probably not fast enough. _Please_ don’t torture me—there’s already too many stairs.”

“You’re gonna have such good asses!” Simone chuckles. “Not that you didn’t already.”

She squeezes hard enough to make Pat jump.

“Sorry you couldn’t find a place to get a king-size bed,” Brian murmurs. “I know you wanted one.”

Pat blushes, in the dark, because he thinks maybe that’s too revealing, how much he’d like to have space for Brian and Simone to fit comfortably beside him. “It’s a stupid dream for New York anyway.”

“Your bed’s fine,” Simone says. “We fit. And if not I can just kick one or two of you off for the couch.”

“Sounds like I better get a bigger couch,” Pat offers dryly.

“Just put Brian on the floor,” Simone pets him. “He’s young. He’ll live.”

“He’ll _cry_.”

Brian’s ignoring them, though, snuggling further into the blankets and looking up at the ceiling. He’s always in between them, which is silly, because he’s by far the wiggliest and most likely to get up and down, but Simone likes to be on the wall and Brian likes to be cuddled from both sides and Pat likes everyone to be happy. “I love new spaces,” the kid sighs happily. “So many possibilities.”

This is definitely the truth, because Bri loves wasting money on airbnbing _the perfect spot_ for all their little games. “What do you see here? Besides lockpicking classes.”

Brian traces out a few ideas—rugs for the hardwood floor—a new coffee table—he wonders if they can drill into the brick wall and hang pictures—

“You definitely can,” Simone says. “It’s a bitch, but I can do it. I’ll get the parts. We’ll do it next week.”

“Thank you, Simone,” Pat says, a little overwhelmed with affection, but keeping it out of his voice, because she doesn't like all that.

 

* * *

  


Sim does drop by the next week. Pat would’ve thought she’d be sick of them by now, but she shows up with her drill and her ponytail and a no-nonsense look about her. She drills anchors for Brian in the brick, swearing a bit but mostly working with ease, and helps him hang Pat’s posters and some picture frames.

She’s delighted that underneath the drywall there are ceiling beams, and she immediately gets to work with her lag bolts or whatever.

“There,” she clambers down off the ladder, wiping her sweaty forehead. “You can hang a punching bag on that.” She gives a little smile. “Or at least, that’s what I tell people.”

Pat goes to pick up beer out of immense gratitude—when he comes back, though, she’s got his new-old couch upside-down.

“What the fuck, Simone.”

“Look, this thing’s heavy as shit,” she explains. “Just a couple eyehooks on the bottom here so you can fasten stuff to it.”

Brian giggles. “Or people.”

“It’s very discreet,” she waves a hand. “No one’ll see.”

Pat laughs at her self-satisfied smirking. “Jesus, you’re a real DIY evil genius.”

“Isn’t it _great_ ,” Brian gushes. “Simone, we so owe you. Please please let me make it up to you.”

“Hah!” She hops up on the bar and spreads her legs. “Well, if you insist. Have at it, boyo.”

  


* * *

  


Pat can’t find a bench that fits her specifications, so he settles for an old wooden trunk that’s heavy as shit and will probably make a decent coffee table and also stand up to some creative uses. She approves of the weight and the iron handles but runs a hand along it and frowns and says it’s too splintery for spankings—

“I can help you refinish it,” she mutters. “I got a belt sander.”

Brian gets deeply excited because he _loves_ projects, and the two of them are off to the races picking out stains or paint colors or whatever. Simone’s a very _let’s-do-it-right-now_ sort of person, which is a little overwhelming but very fuckin’ nice.

“You’re investing an awful lot of time into my living quarters,” Pat says, amused, when she throws open the windows to air out the smell of furniture polish.

She hesitates, looks a little shy, glances away. “Look, Pat, I just don’t like things being left unfinished. I know you. You won’t even unpack unless I make you.”

“True enough,” Pat relents, and doesn’t press again.

 

* * *

  


“You’re worked up tonight, baby boy. What’s on your mind.”

Brian wriggles around to face Pat on the pillows. “I think Simone wants to give me a collar.” His tone is hushed, oddly reverent. “Can she?”

“Oh? That’s nice—she knows you already have a few, though, right? She can just use ours.”

“No, no, not like that. I think she wants to _give_ one to me.”  

“Uh, all right. That’s fine, I guess?”

Brian tugs gently at Pat’s hair. “Okay wait. You need to think about this more than that.”

Pat frowns. He’s not stupid, and that tone means this is something serious, though he’s not quite sure what. “Explain for me please, Bri. Dyou mean she’d like to do a scene, or—?”

“No, it’s like—” Brian pauses. “Y’know how like, most rings are just rings, but some rings are like _wedding rings?_ It’s like that. Collaring someone. It’s a big deal. Symbolic.”

“Huh. Is there a ceremony?”

“Dunno. Everyone’s different. She’ll tell me what to do.” Brian pauses. “Did she collar you? She’s pretty attached to you.”

“I...I guess she did,” Pat murmurs. Simone _did_ give him a collar, way back when. She didn’t make a fuss. Just asked him if he would put on something like that, for her. He said of course. He doesn’t wear it very often, these days. Usually if she wants something on his throat she picks something a bit more padded, so she can really jerk him the fuck around.

He digs it out of the trunk and hands it to Brian to inspect. It’s just plain saddle leather, like a belt, with a brass fixing to hang a hook and a couple studs holding it together.

“Woah! This is _sick_ ,” Brian observes.

Pat laughs. “I’m pretty sure it’s an actual dog collar.”

“Yeah,” Brian murmurs, running his fingers over the little metal plate which is probably designed for an engraved name, but which is just blank.

“It was already beat up like that when she gave it to me. Maybe leftover from an old pet.”

“No way, she _definitely_ picked this out for you,” Brian says reverently. “It’s so you. Vintage. Very understated. The opposite of dainty.”

Pat blushes a touch. He remembers her buckling it on him for the first time. It was after they’d fucked, in the hazy afterglow. It wasn’t for any purpose, at that moment—she just wanted him to wear it, and once he had it on she played with the little ring. Pat never questioned her aesthetic decisions, and he wore it whenever she asked, and he kept it with his other naughty toys.

“I should wear it more,” he muses. “I didn’t really realize it was a thing. Stupid as that sounds.”

“You should.” Brian buckles it on him, gently. “When you want to think about her. Or just when you want to look friggin’ rugged.” He tugs the little brass ring, and Pat feels pleasantly glowy with the attention, from Brian in front of him, and from Simone back in time.

Pat settles back down to the bed with Brian, thinking about Simone, and about all the times he’s put his foot in it with her and she’s forgiven him anyway. Add this one to the list, he supposes. He sighs.

Brian bites his lip. “Are you really okay with it, if she does that? I don’t want you to think she’s taking something from you.” He keeps playing with the ring, touching it, stroking a finger under the dark leather.

Pat kisses him. “Listen, babe. I know I’ve got a jealous streak, but Simone’s different.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He slides a hand behind Brian’s neck, tips the kid’s head down, so he can talk more into Brian’s hair than anything else. “We dated for a bit, you know that?”

“Like, _dated_ dated?”

“Yup.”

“I thought Simone doesn’t date.”

“She doesn’t—not anymore. It was a mistake. Just something we tried out. We were really fuckin’ horny for each other, and all. But Simone doesn’t—she likes to be able to fuck off for a few months. She’s not into that whole—” he laughs. “I was too lovey-dovey for her, is what I mean, I guess.”

Brian gives a little nod into Pat’s chest. “She’s aro.”

“Yeah. And I get pretty fuckin’ freaked when I’m dating someone who doesn’t need _anything_ from me.”

“Was it a bad breakup? Or like, change-of-parameters, I guess…?”

“Nah. Mutual. But we were really shit at staying friends. Like, kept avoiding each other and then getting drunk at parties and ending up fucking. Eventually she sat me down and was like _hey pat do you want to keep, like, having sex and getting high and hanging out but also not do valentine’s and i’ll give you hookup advice and you don’t ever have to be ‘there for me’ or whatever the fuck_ and I said, well shit, of course.”

“Sounds pretty healthy.”

“Yeah, _eventually._ But not—no thanks to me. Oh _Jesus_ , Bri, I wish you’d been there when Simone found out I was bi. It was a real fuckin’ fiasco.”

“Oooh,” Brian glances up, and gets that _look_ he gets, whenever Pat’s willing to _tell a story._  “Spill, spill. I need details.”

Pat groans. “It’s not me at my best, kid. I’m fuckin’ embarrassed about it.”

“That’s even _better_ ,” Brian grins, and pulls Pat’s hip tight to him. “Tell me your secrets. I’m your boyfriend. It’s the law. Otherwise I’ll ask _her.”_

“All right, all right. She was mad at me. We were fighting. I can’t remember why. Maybe too much PDA? She used to get pissed at me for that. But it also mighta been—” he pauses. “Sometimes I’d be unreasonable. So mighta just been some dumbshit thing I did—most likely— ”

Brian waves off the backstory. “Fine fine. She was mad. So what happened.”

“So our dynamic was like—” he pauses. How to explain. “A little less evolved back then. Not so much with the hitting. But it was still like—she liked to _teach me a lesson_ , yknow. When I got out of line. Mostly it was humiliating me.”

“You do blush really pretty,” Brian smiles. “When she fucks with you at work.”

“God, you have no _idea_ the shit she used to do,” Pat laughs. “When she was really pissed. When I was being a cock. But anyway. That time she like, took me out to a gay bar. I think she might have dressed me up, even. Nothing too crazy. But yknow. She was trying to get me some attention. To really—okay, it’s fucked up. I don’t think she’d do it anymore. But you know how I am…”

“She thought you’d be embarrassed.”

“Yeah. Like, I don’t think she wanted me to get groped or anything. Just figured I’d freak out.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I guess I just—I got drunk enough to be brave.”

He can remember it well. That feeling in his gut—frustration, anger, wanting to get back at her for being nasty and cold. She was—she was a little different back then, too. Didn’t always hold it in, how much contempt she had for heteronormativity, for his straight guy face. They were still settling into being friends that didn’t have expectations of each other and didn’t have boundaries, either.

He’d been really _pleased_ about the gay bar, actually. Vindictively pleased. _I’ll show her_ , he’d thought, which he’s not proud of but there it is.

“I let a dude pick me up and ditched her. Made sure she saw me making out with him hot and heavy, and then just dipped.”

“Cute guy?”

“It wasn’t about the guy. It was about her.”

“Ah.”

He was a jackass, but he remembers—just _aching_ to show her that he wasn’t _like other guys_ , that he wasn’t _straight_ and _romantic_ and _boring_ and all the stuff she found repulsive—that he was wild enough to be her fuckbuddy—that he could handle it , that he wasn’t gonna break _._

“She was so pissed.”

She really nearly punched him, back at his apartment, the next day, when he stumbled in hungover in the early morning. _What the fuck, Patrick,_ she shouted. _You can’t get high and drunk and go sleep with random dudes just to spite me, you piece of shit. I was so fuckin’ worried—_

 _Fuck you, Simone,_ he grumbled. _It’s none of your business. Get out of my house._

 _It’s my business when you get fuckin’ murdered,_ she spit. _Or when you end up at confession crying your stupid little heart out_.

_I’m a fuckin’ adult, Simone, don’t try to goddamn babysit me._

_You’re a self-destructive asshole. You’re baiting me because I don’t fuckin’ swoon at the sight of your cock or whatever. You’re like—I can’t even fucking believe you—trying to fucking_ _punish_ _yourself just to hurt me—_

He shoved her. Not hard, but he’s not proud of it. _Suck a dick, Simone. Not everything’s about you. Maybe I just thought he was hot._

She shoved back. _You’re a liar, you piece of shit. I can’t believe you—_

 _You think that’s the first guy I’ve fucked?_ he taunted. _You don’t know me at all, Simmy._

 _I don’t believe you, you utter fucking cock._ God, she was so mad. _I can’t believe you’d pull this shit just to make me upset. You’re fucking twisted._

 _Why thanks, Simone,_ he remembers needling. _Good to know that you think I should stick to girls._

_Fuck you, Patrick, that’s not—_

_You’ve been fucking me for months, Simone, and you never even_ _asked_ _. Guess you’re the only bi bitch in the world, huh?_

“We argued. I tried to—I was a dick about it. I was trying to make her feel guilty. For thinking I was straight.”

“Oof.”

She was so dumbstruck. Still angry, absolutely furious, but also guilty. He remembers that it was so rare, that he could surprise her with anything. That he could make her guilty, hurt. He hates that it made him feel powerful, at the time.

 _I’ve never heard you talk about a guy like that,_ she said, quieter. _You never said…_

_Maybe ‘cause I thought you’d be a fucking asshole about it._

God, that hurt her. It was meant to.

 _Jesus, Pat. We need to—_ she ran her hand through her hair. _Are you coming out to me right now?_

 _Not sure._ Pat was vicious. Because he was still angry, and he was meaner, back in those days. _How many guys do I have to fuck before I count? I’d submit my bona fides if you want. Last boyfriend? First dick I sucked? Can I list the guy who had his cock in my ass last night as a reference?_

 _Pat._ She grabbed his hands, then, and her face broke a little, and _still_ he threw her off. _Pat, I’m sorry. I—_

_Don’t fucking worry about it. Glad you think I’m not a fag. I’ll let my dad know. It’ll make him happy that I turned out normal after all._

That’s what did it, what made her cry. She cried a lot, actually. She was so goddamn sorry.

“I just—I can do a lot of damage, when I try. And she wasn’t even _wrong_. I was pulling some self-destructive shit. I went home with that dude just to fuck with her. It was fuckin’ repulsive, and she was right to be pissed, and I went and pulled the rug. God, it’s a miracle she still talks to me.”

And yet—

after that fight—

after she was just devastated with tears and apologies and he got so guilty and horrified that he admitted to being a total fuck and overall it seemed like they might never speak again—

after that, things were different. Suddenly, Simone knew more about him than anyone else in New York. She knew how petty he could be, how mean. She knew he was still a total mess, about his sexuality and his relationships and himself and everything. She knew that he’d never tell anyone anything important until you screamed it out of him. She knew about his dad.

Everything afterward came from that fight, he reckoned.

“Pat?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.

“It’s okay. It turned out good, right?”

“Yes. Completely.” He kisses Brian’s head and thanks his lucky stars for Simone. “It led me here, more or less. So it was perfect.”

  


* * *

  


Simone picks out a collar in oxblood red for Brian. It has beautiful little floral embellishments, and it’s dainty and dark and sweet, with silver fastenings. It’s perfect.

She comes over early, that Saturday, to show it to Pat. She’s shy about it, which is uncharacteristic, texts him before to let him know what she’d doing. He digs out his own and wears it for her, opens the door with it on.

It lights up her face, to see it. “Oh man. Sorry I didn’t get you a real fancy one, way back then. I was poorer. But, like, I still _do_ think the rugged worn-out look kinda fits you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he says, touching it. “I didn’t understand it was important.”

“It’s not,” she shrugs. “It’s not, like, you have to have _feelings_ about it. You can wear it, or you can not. It’s more about me.”

They never say _I love you_ , and Pat knows he’s not to do that. “So what’s it mean for you.”

She scowls. “It’s not a sappy thing.”

“You can be sappy if you want, Sim. I won’t tell.”

“It’s _not_ ,” she pushes him a touch. “I mean, I like you lots and all, but I can just look at your stupid face to remind me of that.”

He fiddles with the ring. “So what’s this remind you of.”

She pauses. “It’s like—a contract, kind of.”

“And the terms are?”

“One-sided,” she says, firmly. “It carries no responsibilities for you whatsoever. So don’t feel like you have to wear it. Or do anything for me. It’s not like that.”

“So what’s it like.”

“Gah!” She throws up her hands. She’s really getting worked up, now, from all these tender little questions. It makes her eyes flash and her hands get flustered-mad. “I can’t deal with _two_ of you getting all gushy on me. Brian nearly fucking cried when I just _talked_ about it.”

“He’s sentimental.”

“I need to run away to Mexico,” she groans. “It’s not like a fuckin’ wedding ring, okay? It doesn’t mean, like—we’re dating, or we’re together forever, or I love you, or that bullshit. It just like. Reminds me, okay? When we play. That I’m in charge of your wellbeing.”  

Patrick smiles. “You know I don’t _have_ to do what you say, right, Simone? Like, we’re all adults, here. We both agree to play.”

“Of _course_ you don’t, numbnuts,” she scoffs. “But it isn’t fuckin’ bidirectional, what we do. You give me a lot of power. I have a duty not to fuck it up. That’s all.”

This is all the tenderness Simone’s body can stand. She refuses to be cuddled further. Pat can see her ponder kicking him off the couch entirely, but he backs off and lets her have her space, and the remote, and she relents.

  


* * *

  
  


In bed, later, Brian’s sleeping with his sweet little collar on. Pat’s wearing his too, and he forgot how snug and comfortable it is. A nice reminder.

“You two are making me soft,” she whispers.

“Don’t say that,” Pat smiles. “You know I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“It’s not just him, though,” Simone admits. “I wouldn’t even fuck with him without you, to be honest.”

“Sim, don’t lie. You eat him up.”

“Oh, he’s hot as fuck,” she shrugs. “But I don’t fuck with messy little romantic twinks like that, Pat. Not usually. I can’t give them what they need.”

“You treat him well.”

“Only because you’re there.” Simone sighs. “You know how much it would stress me the fuck out, to be in charge of him alone? All that fuckin’ crying?”

“You love it when he cries.”

“Only ‘cause I know you’ll like—” she makes a vague gesture. “Fix it, if I need you to.”

“He’s pretty bouncy, Simone. Most of it’s for show.”

“But not _all_ of it,” she shrugs. “That bitch needs a lot of _attention._ And I’m not gonna keep track of all that—cuddles and petting and drying his tears or whatever. You do the parts I suck at.”

“Always,” Pat avers. “It’s really—it’s really something, to watch you play with him. He has such fun, Sim. There’s nothing more you need to do. I got him. I like picking up the pieces.”

“I’m so fuckin’ glad you understand me,” her shoulders droop in relief. “I know people need—lots of stuff. I just don’t—I can’t always—    

“You’re a gift,” Pat murmurs. “Thanks for playing with us. You know you can have either or both of us whenever you want, as much as you want. We…we like you very very much .”

“This fucking romantic shit,” Simone chokes out. “I can’t stand it.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Pat smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> \- 'ships: Pat/Simone, Pat/Brian/Simone  
> \- sex: M/M/F, light mentions of oral/masturbation/pegging  
> \- language: assorted dirty talk, one gay slur  
> \- BDSM: femdom, D/s dynamics, punishment, extended play (not quite lifestyle, not quite a scene either), collaring, bondage  
> \- kink: quick but explicit mentions of a LOT of kinks - forced feminization, public humiliation, piercing, flogging, praise kink, shades of puppy play
> 
> \- triggers: heated (slightly physical) arguments, breakups, risk-seeking, revenge sex, coming out, unhealthy parental relationships
> 
>  
> 
> note: trying to portray just one flavor of aromantic orientation here, but not being aro myself please let me know if i play in to any harmful stereotypes or misunderstandings.


	37. (sometimes she sings in french)) / -- held -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brian gets carried away. by simone and pat, specifically.
> 
>   _j'ai deux amours / mon pays et paris / par eux toujours / mon coeur est ravi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a real wild one. see end-of-chap warnings.

#  **(saturday) (morning) (day 2)**

Brian creeps slowly, so slowly, across the floor on his belly. They’re fucking in the living room, so it’s risky, but he might not get another chance. He’s not quite got a combat crawl going (it’s too painful, against his naked skin) but he’s down low and creeping-quiet and holding his breath.

He nearly cries out in despair, when he reaches the end of the chain and finds that, even stretched out to his fullest, he can’t reach a single drawer. One kitchen cabinet he can edge open with a fingertip, but he can’t touch anything more than a pot handle for a flimsy aluminum saucepan. Useless. 

 _Keep it together, Gilbert,_ he breathes. What about the fridge? Maybe. Maybe there’s, like, a knife in there, shoved in some leftovers or something. 

(But will it be quiet enough, opening? They might hear— 

—fuck it. He’ll beg mercy, then.)

Brian’s desperate. He’s out of ideas. Bobby-pin lock-picking is harder than it looks, and none of the links are loose or broken, and there’s no friggin’ _way_ he’s getting that bedframe apart without some tools. 

He needs a fucking _knife._

He puts his fingers on the refrigerator door and waits, listens. It sounds like they’re still going at it (the woman’s _really_ loud, the man more taciturn) and he tries to open it slowly, quietly, when she’s particularly raucous.

There’s no pause, in their sounds, so Brian lets out a breath. Good. He eases the door open, gets up on his arm to look for anything promising. God, there’s almost _nothing._ Some cans, some wine, a couple tiny tupperwares. Butter. Eggs. It’s sparse in the extreme, and absolutely nothing sharp to be found.

( _Don’t give up hope, Gilbert. C’mon. Be resourceful._ )

He sets to work prying the tab off a soda can, wrenching it around to loosen it, to free a shard of sharp metal. Anything. _Anything_ to try sawing through the links in the chain. He pulls and yanks and it comes off in his hands with a little metallic _pop_ — 

 _«_ _Hein_ ? _»_

Oh, fuck. 

There’s a clamor—some muttered curses—movement— 

(should he stay where he is? try to make excuses? hide?) 

the woman’s screaming angry French as soon as she sights him— 

(oh, definitely, _definitely_ _hide_ ) 

and he’s scrambling, hands and knees, fleeing back into the bedroom, throws himself under the bed, wriggles, draws up his feet, balls himself up—hug your knees and think small thoughts, Gilbert, shrink, hide, as far away from her as you possibly can—

 _«_ _Viens-t’en Patrice ! et tente de l’agripper, le p’tit connasse !_ _»_

(that word isn’t good, he doesn’t know what it means but it isn’t _good_ )

She shouts and kicks and swears, but he can’t understand her, and she can’t reach him, and he trembles and prays she’ll just give up. It’s a stupid thing to pray for, but— 

under the edge of the bedframe, he sees feet, then knees, then veiny arms, then dark hair, then shining eyes. The skinny guy is staring at him. The one that doesn’t talk. 

(Brian gets the feeling he works for her, or if they both work for someone else then she’s definitely got seniority. She screams her face red, orders, hits. He nods, endures, obeys.

(Which isn’t to say he’s gentle. Brian remembers his cock, his devilish chuckling. Remembers being pinned bent-over on the bed, her weight crushing his shoulders, his bruising vice-like grip tight on Brian’s wrists. They waited ‘til he stopped crying, stopped thrashing, knuckles digging even-spaced bruises into the small of his back, claw-like hands scraping his tender sides. They’d fucked him several times, until he was limp and spent and out of ways to beg, and then they’d fucked him more. All without _talking_ to him, not a single word, a single instruction that he could understand. Just laughing.))

Oh god, the man’s beckoning. _Come out_ , his gesture says, the gentle curl of his unyielding fingers. His face is serious but not angry. It has a sort of _it’s for your own good_ quality. Brian doesn’t trust that shit at _all_ , no way, no way, _fuck_ no. He’s not coming out.  

The dark-eyed man sighs and reposition on his belly. He’s got long arms, but Brian’s wedged far enough in the corner that he can’t be reached in one sinewy swipe. There’s angry French instruction from on high, then the guy breaks off his burning gaze with an indignant yelp. She’s kicking him. 

(A good idea, that. Brian curls his leg up to ready a kick of his own.) 

But the man doesn’t shove himself further. Instead his fingers reach to the side, and when he yanks the chain Brian’s foot comes with, of course, foot then leg then the rest of him—  

(oh fuck oh _fuck_ )

two hands are wrapped tight around his ankle—Brian squeaks and kicks and pulls but it’s no good—he screams, slides along the carpet, fast and flailing— 

( _shit_ that hurt, he’s gonna have rugburn all down his side)

and then enough of him is out that the two of them can grab and muscle him exactly where they want him. On his belly, first, to cuff him, and then up on his knees, with the man behind his head gripping his hair and the woman in front of him, just standing and _smiling._  

Brian’s breathing hard, and smarting from the sting, and trembling from exertion. The hand on his shoulder is oddly grounding, even though it’s meant to pin him down—the one is his hair less so, as it stretches his neck to her, lengthens his body, offering him like a virgin sacrifice— 

(oh god, oh god, she’s fucking _evil_ , how her fingernails drag up his throat)

She murmurs words, shakes something in her hand. It’s black and like a strap. Leather or plastic, he can’t tell. A little bulky. Short. 

« _Sais-tu ce que c’est, p’tit ?_ »

Brian’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t know what that means. He thinks he might be the _p’tit_. 

Her hands uncurl, almost gently, reaching out. He—he lets her, he can’t help it. A collar isn’t the worst thing—humiliating, but Brian has no dignity left—if _embarrassment_ is her punishment of choice today, he’ll fall to the ground and kiss her fucking feet. 

She settles it carefully, adjusting the fit, and buckling it tight. It feels odd. Studded, maybe? And weighted uneven. 

« _Dégage, Patrice_. » 

She pantomimes releasing. The man— _Patrice_ —follows her gesture, lets him go. 

 _It is super, super interesting to watch Pat pretend to understand French_  
_(he’s worse at it than Brian, really)_  
_(but he’s really good at reading Simone)_

Brian wonders if— 

— _holy FUCK_  

—oh fuck oh god oh bless oh please— 

 _it’s half-a-second before Brian he realizes he hasn’t been hit,_  
_that the bruising contact wasn’t a shoe or a slap,_ _  
was just his body hitting the floor—_

—no no nonono 

—not that _please—_  

the cuffs cut in as he writhes, pointless, trying to break them just by pulling, to get his hands up to his throat to _get this fucking thing off_ — 

_(a shock collar, a fucking shock collar, like, holy shit, Simone)_

It doesn’t hurt, anymore. The pain was gone so fast, in fact, that you could almost kid yourself that it was never there—a splintering flash, just one quick hot point in time, sharp as a whip crack—it’s just _gone_ , too quick to even cry about it— 

the threatening weight, the tightness around his throat, though, lingers, with the fear. He forces out the trembling into his voice, begs helplessly, frantic tears into the ground, _please please no, please not this, please_ — 

_(please, Pat—save me—)_

The man moves, above him. They both step away. They leave him on the floor, still cuffed and bruised and snotty-sobbing, to contemplate his fate. He turns, bleary-eyed, on his side curls up, helpless, whimpers when he sees the bed that he can no longer hide under

(oh god, he’ll never try again, he swears, he _swears_ , because nothing they could do is worth feeling that again, he’ll die, he’ll _die_ )

he tries to come back into his head. They’re murmuring, the two, just outside in the kitchen. He can’t deduce the language, the tone, can’t bring himself up enough to parse it—because that hurt _sofuckingbad_ and every channel on his brain’s eight-track tape is full up right now with his own breathing in panicked stereo—  

a barked _fuck you_ makes Brian flinch in terror. But it’s not for him. They’re arguing, back-and-forth. He wouldn’t’ve thought the man would argue. He’s stony-faced. Obedient. But something resolves, and the two come back in, and Brian’s still on the floor on his side and quite literally too afraid to beg. 

She scowls and reaches for his neck— 

he whimpers— 

unbuckles the collar, which pulls out of him another flood of grateful tears— 

« _Merci, merci_ » he sobs— 

refastens it around his leg. She fiddles with it a long moment, making sure it’s tight, pressing the contacts up against the delicate skin of his inner thigh. When she’s satisfied, she pulls his hand roughly, presses his fingers to the lock, and snarls— 

« _Si tu l'enlève, je fixerai à ton couilles._ » 

—and grabs his balls _hard_ — 

« _Comprends?_ » 

he doesn’t quite understand, but he knows to nod and stutter apologies and promise to be good, so that she doesn’t do whatever thing she’s saying she’s gonna do. 

She pulls him up by the hair, back to his knees. The man unlocks his wrists, but Brian stays still and doesn’t struggle and lets the woman tip his face up and run her finger along his wet cheek. 

« _Ça te va, p’tit,_ » she muses thoughtfully.

He bites his lip. Whimpers. _God_ he hopes she’s not telling him to do something. 

It seems not, because she doesn’t get angry again, just lets go of his chin and stalks back to the door, waves a _come-hither_ hand at her associate.

 « _Allons, Patrice. On reprend la tâche._ » 

She holds the door for him, and the man gets up, leaves, walks out of the room without even looking back, in pity or interest or _anything._ The woman smiles and— 

_fuck—_

shocks him once more, it fucking _hurts_ — 

(it’s less, but still enough to makes him yelp)

and shuts the door. 

Brian curls up his knees to his face and permits himself just a few minutes to cry. Pathetic, defeated, hopeless, naked, dear god what to do, what do they want, will he ever see Laura again, does Laura even know he’s gone yet, how long before she worries, how long before she starts to think he might be somewhere, scared and weeping and in pain, failing at following screamed commands he can’t even understand. 

He lets himself sob until he tastes salt. 

Then he pushes himself up, pulls out his little soda tab, and starts sawing away. 

 

* * *

 

#  **_(lunch)_ **

Brian is fucking _starving._ He shovels pad thai into his face as fast as he possibly can.

“Try not to choke, kid,” Patrick murmurs, eating at a more stately pace. “Food’s not going anywhere.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Brian mumbles, mouth full, which Simone smacks him for and calls him a gross-o . He grins impishly and continues chewing and talking indiscriminately. “That was good. Y'all slayed it. I'm gonna learn so much French."

“Mostly not very _nice_ French,” Simone teases. “But yeah, was okay? Any requests? Tone it down, pick it up?”

Brian shakes his head and gushes. "Perfect. Fucking terrifying. So many good touches, Simone, I didn't know you'd beat on Pat too." 

“Neither did I,” Pat offers, dryly.

Simone coughs, a little bashful, and opens her mouth, but Brian cuts in. “Don't apologize, Sim, Pat loves it.”

“I _know_ he loves it,” she says indignantly. "I wasn't gonna _apologize_.”

“Good.” Brian grins. “Never apologize for solid character decisions. So when’re we gonna pick it up next…?”

“I’m outie for the rest of the weekend, kids,” Simone shrugs. “I got shit to _do_. Monday?”

“We’re goin’ to a movie,” Brian says. “Unless you wanna go real late…?”

“Nah, fuck that. Tuesday, then?” 

“I stream,” Pat puts in.

“Ah, right, shit. Wednesday?”

“Got plans, baby boy.” 

“Thursday I also stream.” 

“ _Fuck_ , this is worse than scheduling D&D. Okay. Friday next, then?”

“That’ll work.” 

“ ‘Kay. Think you can keep the plot that long, Bri-bri?” Simone smirks at him.

Brian shrugs. “No prob. But we’ll play a little without you, I think…?” He gets a nod. “And then I figure—” he waves his chopsticks “—Pat’n’I’ll talk out what’s happened in the interim. Sketch out the plot points Just, like, real-time. ‘Cause remember Pat’s like. Babysitting. While you go do evil French stuff, or whatever.” 

She grins and flicks her hair. “That’s all me all the time, baby.” 

“And maybe Pat can like…report to you?” He turns, a little tentative. They haven’t talked this bit out yet, though it’s been in Brian’s head from the first. “Unless that’s too annoying.” 

“Sounds good, kid. I’ll text her. You just gotta tell me what bullshit you’re supposed to have pulled every day.” 

“Ooh, you can call me too, daddy-o, if anything _exciting_ happens.”

Pat snorts. “Sure. But mostly it’s gonna be Brian pulling up his notes app when I’m half-asleep and quizzing me on all the rising action.” 

“That’s not _fair_ ,” Brian whines. “I don’t _quiz_ you. It’s just super super confusing if we don’t agree on what’s happened and you’re like _remember on Monday what I did to you_ and I’m like _wait I thought you left me alone all Monday_ and blah blah.” 

“Just pretend I’m gaslighting you,” Pat ruffles his hair and smiles.

“ ‘Sagood kidnapping strat,” Simone puts in. “All right, y’all, I’m gonna bounce. Don’t get too wet and wild without me.” 

“Never,” Pat says, straight-faced, and Brian nods. 

 

* * *

 

#  **saturday — 1900 hours — 12 days to delivery**

They’d really worked Gilbert over, the night they picked him up. That was Simone’s style. Wasn’t necessarily a sex thing. Just practical. Beat the resistance out of them early, make sure they know what you’re capable of, then they’ll flinch and snivel and stay down. 

So far it seems to’ve worked. Gilbert spent half of Friday night listless on the floor, dripping come and lube and covered in marks and so exhausted they had to lift his stupid head for him just to check if he was awake. 

This morning they had a bit of a snag, but honestly Pat just figures the kid was looking for water in the fridge. Simone scowled at this suggestion, and dragged the trembling body to the bathroom and shook him and screamed at him that he could drink from the tap or from the toilet if he’s so fucking thirsty— 

at least, that’s what Pat _thought_ she said. His French sucks. But it’s pretty easy for him to read her body language. Not so for Gilbert, who’s fucking terrified and probably just nodded in cowed consent so that she doesn’t shock him again. 

So when the kid crawls tentatively out of the bedroom—Pat’s on his computer at the bar—and when he cowers back from Pat’s glance—he speaks. 

“You can go in the fridge. I don’t care. Eat whatever. Just don’t do it when she’s here.” 

Gilbert freezes, stares, then pushes back his hair with a trembling hand. “Th-thank you.” 

“Shut up. I’m working.” 

The kid swallows his response and Patrick pointedly ignores him. It’s easy to watch him move without _watching_ him, around the edges of the laptop. He crawls to the fridge, eyeing Patrick. Like he’s waiting to be screamed at, permission or no. 

It’s a stretch, for him to get in there—he’s gotta reach to get the door open, to get enough length to grab anything. Amusing, watching him negotiate that. There’s not much in there for him, but after a moment he reemerges with a beer in a glass bottle. He holds it rather carefully, watches Pat, and when there’s no reaction he coughs. 

“ _What._ ” 

“May I…?”

“Fine.” 

There’s another beat of silent watching, and then— 

“Church key?” 

“Hmm.” Pat gets up sudden, stalks around. Gilbert tenses as he swipes the opener off the top of the fridge and hands it down wordlessly. The kid opens it, and says _thank you_ again softly, and observes that Pat is waiting for it, and hands it back. 

The next hour’s damn near companionable. The kid sits in the doorway, back against the frame, sipping his beer, thinking. Pat cracks one for himself too and works. They throw glances at each other occasionally. There’s nothing else, until— 

“Patrice?” 

He looks up, scowls, looks back down.

“It’s Patrice, right?”

“Patrick,” he says flatly. “She’s French, dipshit.” 

“Sorry,” the kid winces. He takes a couple beats, clearly gathering his courage, then tries again. “I’m Brian, Patrick. Nice to meet you.” 

“I know who the fuck you are, Gilbert.” 

More wincing. It’s kinda cute, how easy it is to crush his little hopeful look. But after another couple minutes, it rebounds. He turns just his head, stays sitting in the doorframe, knees up, arms resting idly. 

“Thanks for asking her to move the collar, Patrick.” 

Pat snorts. “Don’t get all cute. There’s no ransom if you die.” 

“I really appreciate it, though,” the kid soldiers on, doggedly. “ ‘Specially ‘cause she seems like she might be kinda tough to stand up to.”

 _Annoying_. “The fuck you mean by that?” 

“Just, like, she has a temper.” Brian smiles wanly. It’s quite charming, in its desperate way. “I mean, obviously. Must make her hard to reason with.” 

“Cut it out.” 

“Sorry.” Brian shrugs, lets go of the point. There’s another long stretch, a little tenser now. After a few minutes, the kid crawls his way into the bathroom, shuts the door as much as he can, does his business, returns to his previous position, in the doorframe.

“You don’t have to _crawl_ ,” Pat spits out, annoyed. “And get off the fucking floor.” 

Brian shudders. “Sorry. I, um. C-can get on the bed if you want? No need to, um—”

_fuck the kid is good. he sounds so goddamn afraid._

“Fucking—no. No. Not—ugh. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” he says gingerly. “Just didn’t want to be presumptuous. She—I don’t speak French, so when she—I don’t know what she’s yelling at me for. What’s allowed.”   

Pat sighs. Fair enough. 

“Yeah, usually she’s just bitching at you to move your fuckin’ ass. If she says _ah-jenoo_ that means get on your knees. And it means you’re in trouble. Other than that, I don’t think she cares where you are.”

Brian nods eagerly at this. “Got it. Um. Thanks.” He pauses. “Please—um. Is there anything else? I should know? If it, um. Makes your life easier.” 

This is worth pondering, actually. Simone is a raving maniac when she gets worked up and he’d get his ears boxed a lot less if the kid didn’t piss her off. He pushes the laptop aside, contemplates the little pitiful figure before him. 

At this distance, without his glasses, Brian’s gaze is imperfectly focused. He’s not hunched over, though. Must be none too shy about being naked. Not like Pat would be. He’s got fresh bruises, here and there, mostly from slaps with her favorite ping-pong paddle, but in some places stray welts from belts and marks from mouths and probably his hips’ll have shadows of blue, in a couple days. 

 _he begged and begged for marks, the little weirdo_ _  
_ _and fuck it’s sick how fun they were to give him_

The kid swallows visibly, at the intense inspection. “Can I...do something for you?”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head. Decides to read it as an invitation. “You gonna stay still this time, or you gonna headbutt me again?” 

The gaze wavers, drifts, then returns to Pat’s face with newfound resolve. “I’ll—I’ll stay still. If you—” he pauses. “If you don’t hurt me...?”

“I ain’t got a reason to be nice. I could just—” he gestures vaguely toward the little button he’s got at his side. He hasn’t pressed it yet. He doesn’t intend to. That’s Simone’s shit. But it never hurts to remind him who’s boss. “Or tie you down.”

“You could,” Brian nods slowly, like he’s edging around a pen containing an angry bull. “But you might have more fun if I cooperate? Less, um, less of a workout.”  

 _really committed to the bit, kid,_ _  
_ _never though I’d see you turn down a chance to get tied up._

“Yeah, all right. Get on the bed, then.” 

The kid nods, face a little stricken, and does. 

 

* * *

 

#  **— bedtime —**

Brian yawns adorably. “That was really good, Pat. _God,_ I’m tired though.” 

“You pushed yourself too hard,” Pat frowns. Brian was _very_ excited about this one, and sometimes he bites off a little much. It’s—well. It’s hard to slow him down. It’s hard to _want_ to slow him down. 

“Naw,” he curls up. “You were gentle. Prolly _too_ gentle. I think you’re past the  begrudging-tolerance-of-each-other phase and already careening toward dear-abbey-what-if-the-guy-im-hired-to-kidnap-is-cute phase.” 

Pat strokes a finger down his spine and ignores the teasing. “Are you _sure_ about not taking a shower, kid.” It seems—well, a little much. Bri’s usually a stickler for cleanliness.  

“Just let me get in character, Pat. If I’m too gross you can make me sleep on the floor.” 

“I’m not doing that. And you’re not sleeping with that thing on, either.” 

He knows he’s gonna get some pushback on that, and lo, he does. 

“It’s _fine,_ Patrick. Totally safe. Look—” he bends his knee upward, plucks at the cuff, “—it’s not enough slack to strangle myself, okay?” 

“Too bad. You can leave the cuff if you want, Bri, but not the chain. What if there’s a fucking fire or something.”

“Fiiiine. You and your worst-case-scenarios. Can you get it, then—thanks.” 

Pat unlatches the chain but leaves the little metal cuff on the delicate ankle. He’ll like that. Brian loves constraints, in any form. Loves working around them. Creating weird songs in 7/4 time or rapping without using the letter _e_ or writing crazy rules and following them to the letter, even unto nearly puking ‘cause hey, soy sauce is _not great to drink._

Patrick strokes under the shackle gently with a fingertip. It’s padded, but he worries anyway. He worries about fires. He worries about chafing. He worries about the shocks on that delicate neck. He worries about whether or not he’s enjoying this far too much. 

“Sorry to spoil your fun, baby boy,” he voices apology instead of worry. 

“It’s okay, Pat. I—” a little faint smile “—sometimes I need it. Like, um, a voice of reason. I can get a little carried away.” 

“No shit, kid.”  

“Are you mad about the collar?” 

Pat sighs. It’s tricky, sometimes, playing with the two together. Simone’s long-used to using some new toy to take her pound of flesh out of Pat’s ass. She knows how he likes being pushed up against the wall, to the brink, how he likes the practice at mastering his reactions, no matter how quick and unexpected, no matter how diverse the tortures she has planned. Brian’s also like that, in his way. Brian _loves_ surprises. Loves being scared into tears. Loves whipping out some wild and crazy shit no god-fearing Christian’s ever seen before and using it to bring Patrick to his knees. 

It’s fun, they’re both fun, but it’s different when she’s surprising _Brian_. 

“Not mad, kid. I knew. Simone’s fuckin’ adamant that thing’s safe.”  

Brian nods and blushes. “Okay. It did, um, surprise me.”

Pat figured. Kid dropped character. He _never_ does that. 

“I can tell her to lay off, if you don’t like it. I only tried it on my arm. Seemed pretty snappy.” It’s sharp and quick, like a static shock, which is fucking _unpleasant_ but not nearly so bad, in Pat’s opinion, as some of Simone’s other disciplinary options. 

“It’s _so so_ much more nasty on your neck, Pat. God. I hate it,” he gushes. “I don’t even know if I could learn to like it. You could train me out of anything in, like, two hours, with that thing.” 

“Please don’t say that around Simone,” Pat grimaces. “Unless you’re keen to see it on me.” 

Brian giggles and touches his neck, affectionately menacing. “You’d let her?” 

“Not sure, baby boy.” He pauses, ponders that, and then revises. “Yeah, I probably would. It scares the shit out of me.” 

“I’d like to see that,” Brian breathes, oddly dark and wicked for this time of night. Usually he’s all cuddles and sweet smiles. This scene must be bringing out something in him, he’s really _resonating_ with exhausted horny energy. “You on your knees. I wonder if she could get you to beg for mercy.” 

Pat feels a curl of fear-hunger in his gut. “You know I don’t beg, Bri. No point.” 

“That’s a lie,” Brian tucks a lock of hair behind Pat’s ear. “I’ve seen you beg. When you really lose it. You’ve begged for me.” 

“Well, I didn’t _get_ any mercy, if I recall.” 

“Give no quarter, and expect none neither,” Brian’s gaze is sultry. “That’s the motto.” 

“You and your fashionable war crimes.” 

A laugh breaks up the little dark look. “Well, shit, Pat, you are _definitely_ not gonna give me due process tomorrow, so, like, who’re you to judge? Johnny Geneva?” 

“Go to sleep, you little devil,” Pat murmurs, and pulls him in. “I’m gonna beat your ass this week. That’s what you’ve been looking forward to. Don’t get distracted—you can torture me to tears some other time.” 

“ ‘Kay,” Brian says sleepily. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

* * *

#  **(sunday) (evening) (day 3)**

“Please, Patrick,” Brian says softly. “Can you—can I take a shower?” 

The glare down from the bed is cold, flat. “Nothing doing.” 

Brian bites his lip. It’s a stupid thing, to press his luck about. But he feels _filthy_ , for a half-dozen reasons

(being fucked and beaten and eating cold leftovers with his fingers and also just the _sweat_ of fear and pain)

and his hair is doing that thing where it’s heavy and gross and lies flat and gets in his eyes and makes them itch, and the more he touches it to fix it, the oilier it gets. He’s not gonna get anywhere asking for, like, mercy, or release, or clothes, or not-to-be-touched. But he has at least a single chip to ante in this negotiation, so he tries it. 

“Won’t I be better to fuck if I’m clean?” 

That gets a pause. Patrick puts down his book, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He’s glaring. Brian tries not to cower. 

“You don’t fuckin’ get it, do you. Simone will _kill me_ if I fuck this up. I’m not letting your ass loose.”

“You don’t have to let me loose,” he tries. “I just need, like. A few more inches to reach the tub.” 

“I ain’t got a longer chain,” Pat shrugs, which is immensely promising. 

“I think if you could just,” Brian bites his lip, “—just, like, move where it’s attached to the bed? To the other corner? I think that’d be enough.”     

(This silent skeptical glare is less promising. )

“Um, you could tie me up, if you want? While you move it. So I can’t cause any trouble.” 

“Sounds like a lot of work just to keep you happy,” Patrick scoffs. 

“I’ll make it good,” Brian offers, a little desperately. “I’ll get all squeaky-clean and meet you on the bed and ride your dick. And if I don’t do a good job you can just put me back.” 

The man reaches a hand out, toward Brian’s face, but doesn’t connect. Just holds it out, palm up, roughly chinward, and waits patiently.

(does he want—?)

Guessing, Brian slides forward and puts his neck against the fingers. Patrick strokes the skin over his jugular thoughtfully. 

“Please,” Brian says again, and feels his voicebox vibrate against Pat’s fingers.

“Put your hands behind your back, then,” Patrick mutters. “I’m not gonna be gentle.” 

 

* * *

 

#  **—  tuesday stream —**

“Doesn’t sound very _fun_ , Bri.” 

“Please? Just let me?” 

Pat laughs. “I mean, of course you can, if you want. Like, as long as you don’t start yelling, I could care less.” 

Brian’s eyes are shining. He’s really gotten a taste for this sort of long-form thing. Pat should’ve known, he supposed. Elaborate set dressing for a day-long scene is fun, but why stop there? Brian’s built for intricacy and plot, for atmosphere and rising tension, for suffering for his art. Who’s Pat to get in his way, if he wants to sit naked on the floor and construct a beautiful little picture of misery while the stream’s on? It’s far from the camera, so whatever. 

“I might be too tired after to really follow up, though,” he cautions. 

Brian waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. I just wanna get in the headspace and like. Sit there a bit. Could you—” he hesitates, only a second. “Could you take a couple minutes and, like, threaten me? Before? To be quiet? ‘Cause like, I dunno, maybe you’ve got a skype call with your evil cabal or whatever. That’d help me drop into it.” 

He’s so damn _adorable,_ when he’s biting his lip with a suggestion-that’s-not-really-a-suggestion, trying to look like he’s just offering a helpful idea instead of systematically wedging in all the little facets of his pet fantasies. 

“Sure. Easy. Gimme a sec to get an idea together and then I’ll shake you around. Were you a bad captive today? Shall I be pissed?” 

“Let’s say yes,” Brian muses, and offers more direction. “But not because of me. Let’s say you’re getting heat from the higher-ups. Or whatever you want to put in. Just, you’re mad from work stress. Take it out on me a little. I _am_ the cause of all your troubles, after all.”

Pat smirks. “Sounds like you’re looking for some more bruises, baby boy.” 

Brian flicks his eyes up, blinks his lashes adorably, and speaks in that voice that shoots up his spine, that vibrates through his teeth, that innervates only and exclusively the depraved corners of his brain that are ungodly fascinated with this little sinner _._

“Oh _yes_ , daddy. I want you pinning me up against the wall. I want bruises on my _face_ . I want you kicking me until I cry and then you screaming _if I hear one more fucking sniff you little bitch then we’ll see how loud you can cry with a broken nose._ ”

Jesus H Christ. 

“... noted.”  

The kid, fucking demon spawn that he is, draws close and strokes roughly at Pat’s pants. “If you hurry, you might have time to _really_ make your point,” he murmurs. “Can’t make any noise if my throat’s wrecked, huh? I’ll be so scared of how angry you are. I’ll take whatever you give me.” 

“ _God_ you’re wild this week,” Pat moans, cock twitching, even though he has less than fifteen minutes before he’s supposed to go live. “Just wild. I can’t fucking believe how sick a fuck I am. And you are. It can’t be fucking _healthy_.” 

“Crying is very ca- _thar_ -tic,” Brian sing-songs. “As is getting your dick sucked. It’s healthy. As healthy as vegetables. C’mon c’mon, let’s start.” 

Pat’s thirty minutes late to his stream start time. He offers no excuse. 

 

* * *

 

#  **(friday) (evening) (day 8)**

It’s not until Simone returns that Brian realizes how comfortable he’s become with Patrick. 

He’s _afraid_ of Patrick, sure. The man’s fucking terrifying, and he yells at Brian, and fucks him, and threatens him, and laughs darkly when he cries. But he’s also—

(handsome)

mostly just _bored_ , most of the time. Easily annoyed, sure, and mean. But also pretty reasonable, as long as Brian does what he’s told and goes where he’s supposed to and doesn’t talk too much and takes it quietly. Patrick’s scary, but Simone—  

( « _Tais-toi, connasse._ » 

“I, I don’t understand, _please—_ ” 

« _Tu n’oseras pa me braver—_ » 

“What do yo— _gah!—_ oh _please—_ ”

 « _Calmez-vous, Simone._ C’mon _._ Let him— _aie!_ » )

well. It’s a mercy she doesn’t stay long. 

Patrick’s—almost _kind,_ really, compared. It’s friggin weird, to push himself up, trembling, and wipe his nose, and look up at that face 

(which is equally unreadable whether he’s watching Brian drink a beer or watching Simone shock him three times in a row, until he’s screaming bloody murder and clawing at the floor)

—it’s weird to _thank_ him, but Brian finds himself doing it an awful lot. 

“Thanks for—” he ducks his head to wipe off tears. “G-getting her off me.” 

“It’s not charity, kid,” Patrick shrugs. “I figure we don’t get all the money if you’re missing pieces.” 

Brian nods jerkily. “Agree. Yes. Very much agree. Good fiscal decision-making.” 

The man laughs at that, and leans back. They’re both on the floor, now, 

(which is unusual but perhaps not _so_ surprising

(if Brian were a kidnapper, even a real jerk one, he would probably also feel the need to inspect his charge for damage or for pity’s sake

(it’s hard to stamp out those little human instincts, right?)))

and the moment drags on with them just, next to each other. 

“I’m gonna play something,” Pat grunts. He’s not asking permission, of course, but he’s not just getting up unceremoniously either. 

“Can I watch?” Brian asks, drawing his arms around his knees. He should be working on escape plans, but he finds he’s just

(lonely)

so bored and aching, and Patrick’s the only one who

(has touched him kindly)

is offering anything like a distraction. 

Patrick snorts. “You can’t even see the TV. And I’m not moving your ass again.” 

“I can see around the couch if I lie on my belly,” Brian admits. “I was, um. Watching _Succession_ with you guys.” 

“Hmm. You’re gonna get your face caved in, kid, if you fuck with Simone.” 

Brian nods nervously, but hopeful, because that’s not a _no._ Pat doesn’t say yes, either, but he does better—he moves the couch a couple feet, so Brian has a better line of sight, and throws him a pillow to rest his chest on.  

Pat plays _Yakuza_ sitting on the floor, actually, with his back up against the couch. It’s a good game for spectating, and a couple hours go by in a blink. Suddenly Pat’s standing, turning off the console, stretching with a groan and rubbing at his neck. 

“Back hurt?” Brian asks, because he’s gotten careless with his thoughts, forgotten to only speak when spoken to. 

It doesn’t earn him rage, though. “Yup,” Pat shrugs, and shoves the controller away. “Probably not as bad as yours.” 

“I could, um,” he lets his breath hitch, just a touch. “Give you a massage?” 

 “ _What_?” The tall man stares at him, standing, in something like surprise. He’s infinitely far from Brian, of course, in terms of chain-length, but not that far, really, in terms of absolute distance. 

“Uh, a massage,” Brian says again. “I’m pretty good, if you want? You look tense.” 

Pat frowns and shakes his head. “I’m not _tense._ Shut the fuck up.” 

He turns away, and Brian sighs and risks just lying in the middle of the floor, defeated, on his back, knees pointing up. He’s fucking _bored_ , he’s read a whole book and he doesn’t think Pat’ll grab him another now that he’s put his foot in it. He’s already showered today. He should probably crawl back in the room and get to sawing at his favorite link, but he needs to wait until Patrick is distracted, or even better, has his headphones on. 

Patrick’s standing over him, suddenly. Brian tenses. He needs to remember that Pat moves quiet in socks 

(though he _clomp-clomps_ heavily in his combat boots) 

and can appear at any moment, unsettlingly close. No point in rolling away now, though. 

“How do you want to do this.” 

Brian blinks up at him for a long moment before he realizes. 

“Oh, right. Um, right! Sorry,” he’s scrambling up, quickly. “If you just want your shoulders you can, um. Sit. On the floor or in a chair. If you want something fancier then let’s go lie down on the bed?” 

“Let’s stick with shoulders. I’m gonna watch some TV.” 

Pat rolls his chair over and sits and flips through channels, and Brian stands and digs his thumbs in rhythmically and is desperately grateful to have something to do. He drags it out a bit longer than is necessary, probably, as if he could elicit some kind of goodwill only through his touches. 

It’s easy to feel Patrick relaxing under him. He runs his thumbs up and down Pat’s neck, digs deliberately into his scalp, smooths out the tension where he finds it. There’s nothing complicated or systematic about it, really, just lots of touching and pressing and paying attention to Pat’s most satisfied sighs. He has the man adjust a few times, moving around, so he can drag his palms down Pat’s back. 

“Can I ask you a question, Patrick?” Brian says, softly, when the credits are rolling. 

“I probably can’t answer it, kid.” 

“Of course. Can I ask, anyway?” 

“Uh-huh.” Patrick’s loose and calm, and so Brian risks it. 

“What’s _delivery day?_ ”

The thumb he has in Patrick’s shoulder feels the delay and then the tightening. 

“Nothing you need to know about, Gilbert.” His body hardens with his tone. 

“I heard her say it,” Brian keeps rubbing. His own shoulders feel tense, to be honest, but he doesn’t want to give up yet. “Does it mean they’ve paid?”  

Patrick says nothing. 

He digs his thumb into a knot and lets his voice waver. “They haven’t paid, have they, Patrick.” 

“Not yet,” he mutters. “Or I’d be done babysitting your chatty ass.” 

“What happens on delivery day, if they don’t pay.” 

Silence. 

“It’s Tuesday, isn’t it,” Brians voice cracks. “And I—I know what happens—” 

More silence.   

He draws his hands away and lets them tremble. “You can’t babysit me forever, can you.” 

He can’t feel Patrick’s tense shoulders anymore, but he can hear the heavy breathing. He lets himself crumple to the floor, fast but not uncontrolled. The commotion makes Pat turn to look at him. 

“Is she gonna make you do it?” he says into the ground. 

“Dunno.” 

 _Brian’s not sure how far he can push. Pat doesn’t like—_  
_well, he doesn’t mind morbid stuff, but he’s a little delicate about like_  
_things like this. He’s entertaining it, though, at least for the moment._  
_It’s hard not to (maybe it makes him a jackass)_ _  
push a little, to see how far Pat’ll let this conversation go._

“Have you done it before,” Brian lets himself be listless. 

“No. Usually, people pay.”

Brian laugh-sobs, and puts his face in his hands. “Oh, Jesus, Patrick, I—” a sniff “I’m sorry.”

The glint in Pat’s eyes is unreadable. He’s right on the edge of something dark. Brian pushes all the way to the rim. 

“I hope she doesn’t make you do it,” he whimpers. “I’d hate to—”

“They’ll pay,” Patrick cuts him off, gruffly. “They always do.” 

“But have they ever—have you ever had anyone this _long_?” 

He clicks his tongue. “No,” he admits.   

Brian lets himself cry harder, slams his knuckles into his own head. “Oh _god_ , they’re not going to—you’re going to—oh _jesus_ —” 

“Don’t—what’s the point of that.” Patrick grabs his wrists hard, pulls them away. He seems a little out of sorts. Upset. Probably about having a crying naked person on his floor, and also probably about having to think about murdering him.

“Will you—h-how’re you—how will you do it?” 

He looks up, knows his face looks wrecked, knows it’s fucking with Patrick’s head a little. He feels a little guilty about that. He clutches his fingers into Pat’s clothes like a lifeline. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Pat says sharply. He lets the wrists go and grabs Brian’s hunched shoulders, like he’s threatening something, but not specifically a slap. 

“She’ll _make_ you do it,” Brian pushes.

“If you say one more fuckin word,” the man growls, “I’m gonna beat your ass. So fucking shut it.” 

He’s really, really worked up, holding Brian’s shoulders _hard_ in a bruising grip, staring intensely into his eyes and trying to hold the tough-guy character as best he can

( _sorry Patrick if you’d just lied down on the god-damn bed_ )

and Brian lets himself be hysterical, sobbing “pl-please blindfold me—so I can’t see you—” 

Pat roars and pushes up—reaches out to strike—the rolling chair goes flying—it’s a tangle of Brian curling up in a ball and chair clattering and Pat breathing heavy and hitting him— 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he flinches and cries and curls up tighter and waits. 

The anger passes quickly and Patrick just growls _get the fuck back in the room_ and Brian stutters one last apology and scrambles, does so, careful not to linger too long or let Patrick see what he’s palmed. 

 

* * *

 

#  **saturday. check-in.**

“Hey Sim. How’s it hangin?” Pat’s voice is casual, or so it seems.  

“Ah, _pas de caractère,_ I see,” she smiles.

“Yeah, we’re takin’ a day off that. Got a little heavy, after you left last night.” 

“I hit the boy too hard?” She doesn’t think so. Too much _winking_. But Pat doesn’t always see that look in his eye. “Sorry if I was too much.” 

“No, no. _He_ was too much. I think he got a little overenthusiastic.” 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Brian’s voice cuts in. He’s a little sorry, maybe. Maybe not. Maybe a little self-satisfied. Simone doesn’t move the phone away, so they both can hear her snort at them. “You’re just too good, Simone! It makes me all, like, panicky-excited.” 

“What’d he do to you, Patty,” Simone ignores him. “Too much crying?” 

“Too much plot development, rather,” Pat says dryly. “We’ve got a couple things to catch you up on. And Brian has some requests for Sunday. Which, if you don’t feel comfortable with…” 

“Try me.” 

They go through everything. Brian’s _adorable_ , as usual. His little plots and plans and lurking ideas. He wants nice climactic bang, of course, but he wants it without freaking Pat out. Knife stuff, is his request. 

“Sure thing, baby boy. Where’re your limits?” 

Brian coughs. “I’m more worried about, like, Pat…?” 

Pat grumbles. “Set your own limits, kid, I’m not trying to—” 

“No, no,” Brian placates. “I mean, like. She’s been doing shit to both of us? Hitting you and all that? When you try to help me? So I wanna make sure you can keep that dynamic without getting in over your head. If you want.” A pause. “ _Patrice_ has gotten a little attached to me, Simone. I think that’s how he wants to play it. We might have a full-blown Pocahontas situation over here.” 

Simone snorts out a laugh that sprays water all over her monitor. _Fuck._ “Oh Pattycakes!” 

“That is offensive,” Pat chides, delicately. “And also, honestly, Sim, did you think it was gonna go any other way?” 

“Yknow, naw,” Simone shrugs. “All right. I can work with that. Let’s hammer out some hard nos, then. In case I get real inspired.” 

 

* * *

#  **— sunday — 1400 hours — 2 days to delivery**

Pat sighs and looks up. Brian’s damp-haired, sitting up against the wall, towel loose around his waist, chain trailing off to one side. Hm. Pat shuts his laptop. Editing doesn’t seem _particularly_ alluring at this moment.

“You bored, kid?” 

“A little,” Brian admits. “You want another massage? Promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.” 

Pat pauses, contemplates. “Yeah, sure. Just no more moping.” 

Brian smiles and stands. “ ‘Kay. Come back to the bed—after I do your shoulders I can do your lower back, then.” 

Mmmm, promising. Pat doesn’t want to wear himself out _entirely_ before Simone shows up tonight, but there’s plenty of time to fuck around. Enough to keep things interesting. He fiddles with his computer a bit, closing things, and gathering himself for whatever Brian’s got to throw at him next. 

He comes into the bedroom and— 

Brian-the-captive is starting to shade toward Brian-the-horny-boyfriend in terms of how well he _knows his audience._ He’s got his back up against the headboard, towel gone, knees spread—not _obscenely_ , but casually naked and half-hard—and he’s arching back against the pillows like it’s _relaxing_ when it’s clearly, clearly not. A shiver rolls through his body, like he’s cold.

“You’re looking for trouble,” Pat growls, and Brian tenses a second, then smooths. 

“No, no, I’m not,” he says easily. “Just, it’s muggy. Come sit.” 

Pat acquiesces to this, steps forward and sits on the edge of the mattress. Brian draws close, wraps his legs around Pat’s waist, grinds into him suggestively. 

“Hmmm, no trouble, huh?” 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Brian offers a sultry whisper. “Take off your shirt, yeah? So I can get started.” 

Pat pulls it over his head, feeling the kid adjust behind him, scootch back a little so he’s on his knees, less flirty but more functional for massaging, presumably. The shirt’s tossed in a random direction and he lets himself sigh and relax as Brian starts, just a hand rubbing hotly, palm-flat, up his spine and up his neck and through his hair and— 

hmm, grabbing it a bit— 

“ _Don’t move,”_ the kid says, softly, into his ear

what the fuck— 

his weird little spidermonkey leg is pushing its heel into Pat’s stomach— 

“What’re you—” he shifts and starts to wrestle back, but Brian— 

“ _STAY STILL!_ ” a barked command so sharp and punctuated by the heel digging in that Pat is startled into stillness with an _oof_ — 

“ _This is a knife,”_ he hisses. “Don’t fucking move.”

Pat freezes. 

The hand wrenches his hair more forcefully, the clingy leg tenses, and as if by magic the kid produces the feeling of a long metallic edge just below Patrick’s throat. 

“Jesus—” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Brian says, and presses in just the _littlest_ bit. “You’re gonna stay fucking still, or you safeword, and those are your only options, all right, Pat Gill? You fucked up your scene and now you’re gonna deal with it. So tap the fuck out or play along.” 

 _kid’s breathing very hard, very hard, real keyed up, pumped with adrenaline—_  
_psyching himself up—  
Pat can help with that— _

“You fucking worthless little piece of shit,” he growls with malice, though he stays carefully still. “I’m gonna break both your goddamn arms.” 

“Shut _UP_ ,” Brian barks. “I’m thinking.” 

Patrick lets a long breath out through his nose. The knife’s probably real. Brian loves a good prop, but he loves narrative accuracy more. He wouldn’t’ve cheated. He would’ve nicked it from the kitchen, somehow. 

Pat’s heart thrills a little, with something. Pride, maybe. 

Or fear. It might be fear, as the kid fidgets with the blade resting just above his collarbone.

“What do you want,” Pat prompts, soft. 

“I’m gonna—don’t fucking move—” he repeats, again. “I’m gonna keep this right on your throat, so no fast moves, Patrick, all right?” 

“All right.” 

“Put your hands behind you. _Slow_. Clasp them together.” 

He does that, pulls his arms slowly behind him, clasps the hands in the space between. The kid’s up on one knee, steadying himself with his other leg and his grip on Pat. He hooks his arm around Pat’s throat and holds the edge more to the side of his neck than anything, leaning his weight forward, so he’s still got his grip and also one hand free. 

It takes a long moment, for the kid to get a ziptie on his wrists one-handed. Fucking _hell,_ when’d he get those? Pat hasn’t even _used_ one since last Sunday— 

“Okay. We’re moving, now. To the left. Slow. Slide.” 

Pat waits until Brian gets both hands back steady, one in his hair gripping hard, the other menacing with the blade. He’s doing a good job, kid is. Pressing the flat of it to Patrick’s collarbone, it feels fucking _thrilling_. 

“Grab the frame.” 

He does that. Brian fucks with his zip-ties again, attaches him, and then lets out a breath of relief and falls back. 

Pat instantly starts to struggle, fight against the ties, but they hold fast and Brian aims a _sharp_ little kick in the small of his back. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“Stop it.” 

Pat closes his eyes and breathes out, slow, and tries to get back in. Okay. He’s still got a chance, here, to turn this around. Before Simone finds out. He needs to be careful, because the kid’s got that fucking knife. Which, if he can get his fingers on it without stabbing either of them, will solve his ziptie problem.

“What the fuck’re you doing, kid,” he grunts. “You’re chained to the goddamn bed. We’re just gonna sit here like this until Simone shows up?”

Brian’s fucking with something, but it’s too awkward to turn, with his hands hitched up and the foot pushing on his hip. 

“If it’s just about revenge, Gilbert, fucking hurry it up. You’re not going to last long after she gets here.” 

No response. Then, two hands around his neck, buckling— 

“What’re you _doing_ ,” Pat growls. “You don’t even have the fucking button for that, kid, what’s the goddamn point.” 

He lets the kid fasten the thing around his neck, though. Again, oddly thrilling, that fucking collar— 

No, no. His job isn’t to wonder what that might feel like. His job is to sweep his hands behind him while the kid’s distracted, try to triangulate where the knife is. Try to _play._ The knife’s not on the bedspread, that he can reach. Possibly it’s in Brian’s mouth, judging by his breathing. No good for grabbing, right this moment. Pat needs to wait for his chance. Collar, zip-ties, whatever, if he can just pin that skinny little knife-wielding wrist down safely— 

Brian finishes and pushes away, lets out a heavy sigh of something like relief. Pat turns a bit, then, watches him slide off the edge of the bed and stand. He’s naked, of course, and— 

jesus _fuck,_ Brian— 

he’s got a long serrated bread knife in his hand, and he stands straight-backed, and stares through his sweaty hair at Patrick. 

“I’m gonna take your pants off,” he declares, neither malicious nor tentative. 

“Fuck you, you little _fuck_ —”

“You’ve done that _plenty_.” Brian mocks. “I’m gonna take them off and tie your legs. Don’t fucking kick me or I’ll slash you up.” 

“I’d like to see you try _,_ ” Pat goads, unbending, and curls his leg to kick out.

 _It’s not really very fair, to call the kid’s bluff that way—_  
_but this whole thing’s gotten wild anyway—_ _  
and it just seems right, that his character would doubt—_

“You don’t want to fuck with me, Patrick.” 

“What’re you gonna do, kid? Slit my throat and then just sit here waiting for your turn? You’re awful fuckin’ clever, I’ll give you that, but you’re still—” 

Brian sighs and rubs his face. “Hush. Okay. But remember. I tried to be nice.” 

The kid turns, stoops to grab Pat’s shirt, and walks— 

straight out the goddamn room what the _fuck—_

_how did he get that thing off—_

oh, shit is really gonna get interesting now. 

 

* * *

#  **(sunday) (late afternoon) (day 10)**

Brian takes his time, lets Pat sweat a little bit, and struggle.

He gets some water and pulls Pat’s t-shirt over his head and contemplates what to do next. His character’d honestly just dip. Get out as fast as possible. However… 

Brian eventually resolves to permit himself decisions that are

(more fun)

perhaps not as character-driven as they might otherwise be. 

The chain trailing off his foot is annoying, so he curls it around, hooks the broken link under the cuff. He can find the key later. For now he’s got to focus. Why wouldn’t he just leave? Well, he’s half-naked, that’s one thing. Clothes seem important. He doesn’t know where he is, that’s another thing. Doesn’t want to stumble out into some random alley. Or maybe he’s gone a little stir-crazy, ten days of this, and he kind of wants revenge and he kind of wants to kiss his jailor and he’s _just trying to integrate this trauma okay._

(Yup, yup, that’ll do just fine.)

He drops the knife and grabs the remote and stalks back into the room. 

Patrick’s stopped struggling, more or less. He glares.

(Pat’s got _such_ a good sullen glare, oh my god)

Brian stands just shy of where Pat can reach and brandishes the little remote. 

“It really hurts, Patrick. You don’t want me to do this” 

He observes Pat thinking, suspects that warning’ll do nothing but harden his resolve. He always makes fun of Brian, for wanting to try new sensations, but he’s nearly as bad a sinner himself, in that regard. But still. It _does_ fucking hurt, and though Pat’s got a better pain threshold than Brian does in some ways—he doesn’t always—it’s hard to know which way this one will go— 

“Let me take off your pants, Patrick. Don’t cause trouble.” He lets his tone stray into plaintive. “ _Please_ don’t make me do it.” 

Pat looks up, checking if that’s real. It’s not. Pat scowls. 

“Fuck you, you little bitch,” he hisses. “If you think I’m gonna fuckin’ _lie down_ and—”

Brian presses it, because that’s as much a yes as good immersion will admit. 

Pat _yelps_. 

He doesn’t fall down, though, like Brian did, maybe because his body doesn’t have the option. He’s bitching and swearing as soon as he finds his voice— 

“JESUS fucking christ Simone what the _fuck_ were you thinking—”

Brian lets Pat collect himself. 

“Yeah.” He allows himself a little smile, when the heavy breathing stops. “It’s a doozy. Thanks for asking her to move it.” 

He steps forward to get at Patrick’s pants, but he’s rewarded with a kick that makes him yelp in pain. 

“Get the fuck _away_ from me,” Pat growls and rips at his hands, and Brian— 

hesitates, for a second— 

but that’s pretty direct, for Pat— 

so he presses the little button again. This time Patrick doesn’t scream, but he does slam his eyes shut, breathe heavy. It’s fucking _scary_ , how his chest jumps, his neck moves with the surge of power, all the way down to his collarbone, just a silent jolt that Brian knows feels awful. 

Pat’s glare is stony, though. “Don’t touch me,” he rasps again, and fights, pulls at his arms behind his back and generally is just _insolent._

Brian bites his lip and dips out right away. 

“Yellow. Pat I can’t—I don’t know—how many times I can do that? Do you know?” 

“Oh,” the shoulders sag a little. “Sorry, kid. Forgot that she didn’t really talk it through with you.” He pauses. Brian thinks he’d brush his hair back, if his hands were free. “I think she’d say it’s safe. It times out if you do it too much.”  

“I—” he worries his lip. That _jumping_ is a lot, around Pat’s neck. It scares him. “How does it feel?” 

“Hurts,” Pat shrugs. “Less than a whip, though. I can take it. I was gonna make you earn—whatever you’re gonna do.” He grins that feral smile, under his stringy hair. “But I can do something else.” 

“Please?” Brian says, a little soft. “I’ll hurt you, if you want. But I gotta do it differently.” 

It’s not that he doesn’t _trust_ Simone. He does. He knows that if it’s safe for a dog it’s gotta be fine for… but… he keeps thinking of all the nerves, the arteries, the fragile highways between heart and brain and all the parts of Patrick that he loves— 

“Funny how careful you are when it’s not on _your_ neck,” Pat prods, with a little smile.

“I was gonna safeword,” Brian admits. “Even on me, that neck stuff, um. It freaks me out. But then you moved it, and I was good.”  

“Huh.” Pat tilts his head. “Interesting. So…” his body adjusts. “Then where do you want to go next. Are you lookin’ to fuck me?” 

He sounds— _eager._ Pat’s breathing is heavy, hot with excitement. He likes these turnarounds, Brian knows. He likes to have control and lose it, and he likes to get what’s coming to him. He likes to be _brought to heel._

It thrills something down Brian’s spine. 

“I wasn’t,” Brian admits, biting at a nail thoughtfully. “But I can. What should I do?” 

“Move it?” Pat suggests, easily. “To my arm, maybe? Leg? Then resume whatever your plans were. Torture or otherwise.” 

Brian ponders. He needs _motivation._ Why would he dally here and fuck with Patrick, torture-or-otherwise-him, when he could be fleeing to freedom and safety? 

(Maybe he’s angry? vindictive? paying back the pain?) 

(Nah that’d be—he’s not been working that angle more than a little... )

(Maybe lean into the Stockholm Syndrome?)

(Well that’s _something_ , but it’s not enough…)

(Maybe he’s trying to get something out of Pat?)

(Possible. But what could he want? What could Pat refuse to give up… then Brian has to insist… then he gets a little _creative_ … hmm…)

The puzzle-pieces slot roughly into place, close enough. Pat’ll follow, where he leads. 

“Okay,” Brian nods decisively, and gets close to Pat’s face. He kisses him hard, first, before he does anything else, kisses his helpless collared captive forcefully and makes him yield to Brian’s invading tongue. 

“You’re fucking hot, Brian,” Pat ekes out when he’s permitted to gasp for air. His eyes are so, so wide, his breathless broad smile dark and lovely. 

“Ooh, tell me more, daddy,” he flirts a bit, while he unlatches the collar. “Compliments befit a man in your position.”

Pat doesn’t smirk at his teasing, just stays panting and earnest and aroused. “When you’re worked up. When you fucking—when you _outsmart_ me, you little shit. And get me at your mercy.” 

“And you call _me_ a weirdo, Patrick Gill,” Brian murmurs, as he presses the contacts to the delicate skin near Pat’s armpit, wraps it tight.

He does laugh at that. “You’re a _complete_ weirdo. You’ve spent all week languishing on the floor like a captured princess—” 

(Brian pouts at the comparison)

“—and now you’re gonna shock me until I beg you to fuck me senseless. There’s nothing weirder than that.” 

Brian’s pout transmutes into a little smile. It’s so fucking rare for Pat to say something like that, to just ask for what he wants, but here it is, wrapped in his sardonic jabs and angled at Brian rather than himself. It’s just so  _Patrick._

(Pat always says that Brian has the hard job, figuring out all the plots and plans, disguising all the clever motivations. But he sort of has his own challenges, in that regard.) 

“Well,” Brian stands. “You’re one to judge, Pat Gill. Let me get back in, all right? 

Pat nods his assent, and closes his eyes, presumably to do the same, to master his little mischievous smirk. (Sometimes they crack each other up with smiling mid-scene, and it’s fun but not very _elegant_.)

Brian closes his eyes too, rocks on the balls of his feet. “Okay,” he says to Pat, but mostly to himself. “So I got myself free. But I’m—I’m fucking tired. I’m sleep-deprived. I’m half crazy at this point. I’m not doing things that make sense.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I’m mad at you,” Brian declares. “For fucking with me all week. For hurting me. I want to pay you back. And at the same time—” He ponders how to say this. “You were nice to me. Kind. I wouldn’t want to kill you. No way. I wouldn’t even want to _really_ hurt you, not in any—nothing gory—I wouldn’t have the stomach for that.”

Pat makes an approving sound—he’s approve of anything, that’s not the function of that sound—it just means he’s listening. 

“So I want to get you back. And I also—I think you’re cute. I’ve been rationalizing your touching me for two weeks. Getting okay with it. Trying to learn how to relax, when you fuck me. Trying to sort it out in my mind. I’m not afraid of touching you, anymore. But I’m angry. Maybe I want _you_ to feel small and powerless. Maybe I just want to touch you again before I go.” 

He cracks an eye and catches Pat licking his lips, eyes shining. “Well. Shall we, then?” 

“Nooo,” Brian whines. “I need a _reason_ . That all doesn’t—it doesn’t fit together. I’ve been trying to run away _all week._ I need like. Something I need from you. It doesn’t have to be big. What information, would I want to get out of you? Just an excuse to stay.” 

“Uh…” 

“It can’t be about the ransom. Won’t work. What else?” 

“Something about Simone…?” 

Brian thinks, then dismisses. “No. That wouldn’t keep me—I need something to stop me from just running straight out the door.” 

Pat shrugs. “Maybe it’s locked?” 

“But it’s _not._ ”

Pat rolls his eyes. “Well, use your _imagination,_ then. It’s not a crazy thing. To put a lock on the door. Good insurance for when your hostage gets free.” 

Hmm. Simple, but pretty tidy. “I like it. Combination lock?” 

“I’ll pick some digits,” Pat grins. “Now _please_ can we—” 

“Okay, okay,” Brian rocks again. “Now tell me where your head’s at. What’s my prisoner thinking.” 

“I liked you better than I should’ve,” Pat says, quickly, easily. “I—not got attached, exactly, but wasn’t detached properly. I wouldn’t’ve killed you. I didn’t want to. I didn’t even really want to hurt you. But I did want to _touch_ you. You felt so fucking good around my dick. Simone didn’t even tell me to keep up with that. I just did it because you were so hot and tight and so _willing_. Such a little slut.” 

Pat’s voice has that taunting edge. It helps, that. 

“And now you’ve fucked my shit up and I’m _pissed_ about it. I get what you’re trying to do. Save your stupid ass. But all I care about really is what happens to _me_ , and I’m gonna get in trouble for this shit, unless I turn it around here. I’m trying to figure out how to do that. And I don’t want to bend the knee for you. I’ve already done it for Simone—”

“Emasculating,” Brian comments. 

“Shut the fuck _up,_ ” Pat snaps, and they’re off again. 

* * *

#  **— sunday — 1500 hours — delivery cancelled**

The kid fucks him up _righteously._ First, with his wicked little shocks, and then with his _fingers_ , which Patrick didn’t expect. He expected to be—well, _feeling it_ tomorrow—but that’s not the way things go. 

Instead, Brian flips him over rather tenderly— 

after Pat stops screaming, that is— 

and works him open _so_ gently that it nearly makes Pat cry, and all that keeps him tethered to the earth is swearing up a blue streak and kicking occasionally— 

he _gets it_ , for that— 

and of course there’s the actual tethering, of his arms to the head of the bed, jerked up behind him in a rather brutally careless position.

(Brian quietly switched zip-ties to leather cuffs, because commitment to the bit is important but Pat wanted to _fight._ ) 

It’s a _painful_ position that Pat’s so fucking grateful for, because if something wasn’t hurting he’d have a hard time keeping himself in it. And he wants to fucking _feel it_. Every languorous well-slicked inch of it. Every time Brian pauses his probing digits and says _if you just tell me what I need I’ll stop_. Every time he weighs deadly fear of Simone’s wrath against visceral fear of Brian’s cock. Every time Brian pauses for breath, bends down to Pat’s ear and whispers silkily, _you can’t honestly say you don’t deserve this, Patrick._

The kid roughens up, after a while, gets reckless and powerful, drives his palm down and moans in furious pleasure. Pat’s long reduced to whimpers, overstimulated, as Brian fucks into him rhythmically— 

he’s already given up the goods— 

yes _both ways_ — 

there’s come on his clean sheets and he’s spilled the stupid digits— 

but Gilbert’s has been too ill-used, it seems, to let bygones be bygones— 

fair enough— 

he really makes it _last_ , though. Through several reapplications of lube and dick and fingers and enough prodding at Pat’s prostate that he does, actually, cry— 

muffled by his pillows, thankfully— 

and when his former captive comes with a shout and slides out messily he can’t do anything but curl on his side. Brian leaves him to fight his way back to earth, moves on into the other room. Pat appreciates that. The space. He doesn’t like to be seen when he’s like this, when he’s just a fucking utter mess— 

_rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

Well, shit. 

“Hey Pat,” Simone’s voice is short. “What is it— _Brian?_ Why’re you facetiming—” 

“Allo, Simone,” Brian says, and Pat can _hear_ that fucking shit-eating grin. “Je suis libre.” 

 There’s a pause. She’s silent. Pat figures she’s probably trying to interpret that. The pronunciation, and also, what the fuck is going on.  

“Vous etes, um, on speaker,” Brian giggles. “so _Patrice_ can hear you.” 

Next, there’s a string of unintelligible, _furious_ French. Ah. She figured it out pretty quick. 

“I’m gonna assume that’s for Patrick? Let me give him the phone.” 

Oh jesus _fuck_ —

he shoves himself up, naked and red-eyed and a fucking _mess_ , to face the goddamn music. 

Brian wanders back in, light-footed. He’s smiling. He gives Pat a quick once-over, glancing, eyebrows raised—Pat manages a _scowl_ , somehow, which serves as well as a nod—and so Brian flips the phone over, props it up on the foot of the bed, so Simone can see him. 

Pat can’t hold her gaze, even one inch wide and tinny-voiced as she is. 

“Um, I figure you two can work it out from here?” Brian murmurs, while she yells. She sounds— 

well, _secretly_ she sounds delighted, but she does a very, very good job of sounding fucking angry as shit. Brian ignores her. 

“I’ll just, uh. Be going now. Goodbye, _Patrice,_ ” he murmurs, and steps up close. He tips Patrick’s head up, and gives him a long kiss. Pat lets him, because it shuts Simone up for a second, at least. “Thank you.” 

Then the kid darts off, in Pat’s fucking clothes, and he hears the front door slam. 

 

 

 

Patrick sighs—takes two breaths—almost a _sniffle_ , that second one—and raises his eyes.    

Simone is laughing at him. “What the fuck happened, Patty?” 

“He nearly slit my throat is what happened,” Pat grumbles, and then laughs, and then sighs. “Little fucker—I’m sure he’ll tell you the whole—but uh. Can I get a little help?” 

“Why’d you let him go, baby,” Simone coos, condescendingly. “You _knew_ that’d be a bad idea.” 

“I didn’t _let him go_ ,” Pat groans. “He got himself loose—it was very goddamn clever, Simone. Very clever. He’s been working on this shit all week. So please come untie me, because I fucking haven’t.”  

“Did he _leave_?” 

“Yup. I mean, text him, I guess—” 

“He’s probably still around,” Simone reassures. “He wouldn’t just leave you.” 

“I mean, he called you, at least,” Pat sighs. “Which I guess is fair.”

Simone just looks so goddamn pleased _,_ it’s devastating. “Oh baby, I’m sorry. It’s just not in your nature to win, is it? Trying to outscheme that little schemer. I’m comin’, I’m comin’. But first I _have_ to hear the story. Why are you naked?” 

“Brian’s wearing my clothes,” Pat murmurs. 

“ _God_ he’s got style. So he really did it all in-scene, huh?” 

“As far as I know, Sim. Knife from my kitchen and everything.” 

“Hmm, didn’t he cheat a bit, though? I see cuffs—”

“I DIDN’T CHEAT,” Brian hollers, from outside the room. His head peeks in, the dastardly little fuck. “I didn’t cheat! I got the knife and the zip ties fair and square.” 

Pat shakes his head. “Gilbert reports he didn’t cheat, _Madame_. And also I suppose you don’t have to come fetch me.” He glances up. “Unless of course you’re just here for more torturing?” 

“No, no,” Brian’s at his side quick, uncuffing him and rubbing at his hair. It feels good, that, and he lets himself lean into it, lean into Brian’s chest as he climbs on the bed, arms eager-searching for Pat’s body. It’s nice, when the kid wears his t-shirts. Which is stupid. But it’s just so _cute_ , seeing his grumpy black band shirts under Bri’s smiling cherubic face. “No torturing. Just cleanup and cuddles.” 

“I’m still coming over,” Simone declares. “Because I want to hear _everything._ ” 

“As long as you’re not looking for a reenactment,” Pat grumbles, as she hangs up. 

The stroking hands pet some of the snarkiness out of him, though. And by the time she makes it there—it takes a while, from her place—

well, Pat’s not sure what time she makes it there, in the end. Some time after the promised cleanup and cuddles. Some time before Simone complains him into ordering a fancy foam topper for her pull-out. 

Pat’s not sure, exactly, what happened in the interim. When she arrived. What they did. How Brian spun the story (probably quite well). 

All he knows is that he falls asleep in Brian’s arms, and that’s where he wakes up, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS
> 
> sex: anal/oral/etc, rough sex, mentions of M/M/F although the sex itself is M/M  
> BDSM: bondage, discipline, s&m, marks, longform scene (shy of lifestyle, tho), negotiating edgeplay and not always perfectly, safewording  
> kinks: knifeplay, electroplay, humiliation/degradation, captivity, crying  
> triggers: (roleplay of) KIDNAPPING. (roleplay of) rape / torture. shades of stockholm syndrome. discussion of murder. heavy roleplay headspace. everyone’s havin’ a blast, tho, promise promise.
> 
>  
> 
> a two-word prompt ('stockholm syndrome') that became a really weird one??
> 
> SAFETY NOTE: though you'll find people on youtube trying it, and some people into electroplay might do it, i wouldn't put a shock collar on a human neck despite its theoretically low risk. most kinksters i know advise against anything electrical that close to hearts and throats and stuff, and im inclined to agree. stay safe, stay wild out there.
> 
> FRENCH NOTE: my french is only okay. grammar corrections happily accepted.


	38. (breakdown, go ahead and give it to me))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pat finds his limits. or maybe simone finds them, technically. brian finds it all a little...intense.
> 
>    
>  _it's down to me, oh yeah / the way she talks when she's spoken to / down to me, the change has come / she's under my thumb_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when this was a cute sexy fic with no bad feelings? me neither. this one's chock full of 'em. see end-of-chapter warnings

The first rule of dance is: get good at falling. 

(alternately, you can get good at convalescing, but it’s not recommended). 

Brian’s great at it. Had plenty of practice, literal and metaphorical. His genius math-nerd roommate used to call it _fail-fix-iterate,_ but Brian’s older now and he doesn’t let beautiful boys with beautiful brains beguile him with their comp-sci jargon anymore

(although their _other_ charms are still entirely worth a good beguiling.)

So these days Brian just goes for the unpretentious _i’m good at falling on my ass._ It’s a mindset thing. A willingness to shelve humiliation for later, or fuck it, for never. Some skill at improv. A dash of pain tolerance, and a good fake smile. 

Pat’s not very good at it. 

It’s not that he’s missing any of the key components, exactly. Pat’s clever—thoughtful—attentive and quick and all the things you need to, like, paper over a skipped line in a play or to sense when things are going south. 

And Pat’s not dainty about getting _hurt,_ exactly _._ He can take a licking and smile through the pain and even thank you for the favor. Brian sees it, every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, and quite a few other nights besides. 

And yes Pat can actually _literally_ fall, too

(even if you kick him in the clavicle and he goes over with an unpolished shout 

(and Brian panics a _little_ but not for long because Pat’s laughing and rubbing his chest ruefully and snarking out something like _oh you little shit i’m gonna—_ )) 

But this constellation of skills fails, in Patrick, to coalesce into the right temperament for falling out of a scene gracefully. He’s too _earnest_. Falls too hard, lands on too many tense-tight places, has too many fragile beautiful delicate angles that he can’t possibly protect, when he’s busy trying to keep everyone happy and find himself a spot in there too. 

Pat doesn’t pratfall. 

If his jaw’s set tight against some unspoken emotion—then he really means it. It’s _real._

If his smirk curls with mischief—he really is alight with wicked thoughts.  

If he’s crying—crying in a heap on the floor, bitter wet tears of anguish and humiliation—gripping his bony knees—waving off all comers—pulling the bows so hard and angry some hair comes out with them—sobbing at them both to _go, just—go. leave. please. get out—get the fuck OUT—_

(fuck Brian wishes he could just _touch_ him, but—)

well. If he says get out, then he means that, too.

 

* * *

 

Simone takes Brian down the street for bodega coffee. He’s shaking a bit. He hasn’t fucked up this bad in months, and he’d almost forgotten that he _could._

( **I’m fine.** Pat texts him, soon after they’re settled 

(which is comforting-not-comforting in its brevity 

(and downright terrifying in its punctuation) )

 **I just need a bit.** ) 

“It’s my fault, baby,” Simone catches his hand. 

“No. _I_ asked for it,” Brian retorts, and bites his lip. 

 

* * *

 

He had asked for it. 

“Pat’s really down,” he'd said, which was true, although not obvious. When Pat slides into a gully, it’s gentle. Subtle. He’s sort of like that all the time, is the thing. Inclined to go a day or two long, between hair-washings. To wear dark clothes, to keep his head down, to scowl instead of smiling, to mutter darkly _I’m good_ in a voice that belies the message. It’s kind of his aesthetic, more or less. He just looks like the sort of person who answers _when did you last_ _eat, Patrick_ with _dunno_ and doesn’t even bother to shrug. 

“I’ve tried my normal stuff,” he’d sighed. “It’s not working, Sim.” This was also true. Brian has a suite of tools for sorting Pat out. He drags Pat out to parties, then lets him stay in and binge anime all weekend. He doesn’t touch too much all day, then cuddles close to Pat’s chest in the dark, and kisses the coarse hairs. He springs questions like mousetraps, and doesn’t stop when the answering syllables stutter with grief or anger. But the normal hot-and-cold had failed to loosen the lid. 

“You looking for ideas, baby boy, or a house call?” she’d said, raising an eyebrow. 

Possibly he should have picked the former. Brian can do okay, with her direction. He’s learned enough unsympathetic combat medicine to lance whatever’s boiling below the surface in Pat’s brain, most of the time. 

But he doesn’t do it like _her,_ doesn’t find the vein with such devastating accuracy— 

(though Brian’d be kidding himself if he said efficiency was his _only_ motivation.)

“I think he’d like to have your help,” he’d said, slowly. “Like you—used to do? When I wasn’t there.” 

Like she’d done, that first time. When Brian was supposed to sit there, quiet and still, and watch her break Patrick over her knee and not bother to put him back together again. It was _fascinating_ . Brian doesn’t _want_ to see it happen (because it only happens when Pat is really desperately fucked-up) but also— 

“All right,” she’d smiled. “Maybe this weekend. You...wanna be there?” 

“Yeah,” he’d said, shifting from slow-to-quick in a way that made her quirk an eyebrow. She can scalpel through Brian, too, in her way, and she _sees_ him, sees the dark swirl of curiosity that underlines his words with unflattering haste.

Brian’s interested in every piece of Patrick, is the thing. It’s different, how he is, with her. That silent sullen stoically embodied place he goes. 

Brian wanted to see it again.

 

* * *

 

 

(No. No. Brian’s not going to cry in a fucking Starbucks. _No_.)

“Well, Bri, I’m the one who put it on the table.” Her voice isn’t—it’s not _upset_ , but it’s a bit subdued. “I should’ve guessed this is how it’d go.”

Brian turns away, tries to teach his eyes how to reabsorb moisture, and then gives up and dashes at them quickly. She clicks her tongue, and it jolts something in him, and he says “I can’t believe I—” 

Simone cuts him off, sharp, with a rap on the table. It’s just a noise to make him look at her, like he’s a dog. He looks.

“It wasn’t you. I’m out of the loop, Brian. I should have s—Pat used to really—” she pauses, coughs a little. “He used to really want me to rip him to fucking pieces, baby boy. This used to be our _thing_. Not whips and chains and all your pretty crying. It’s different, now.” 

“I shouldn’t’ve—” 

 

* * *

 

Once their deal was struck, Simone laid out quite a few options for Brian to pick from. Things they used to do, from what she smirkingly referred to as the _pre-Brian Dark Ages._

Some of it was familiar. Bri’s seen her work, of course. Edging, overstimulation. Laughing at his pain. Using him recklessly. Telling him _what he is_ with such insight and viciousness that it rattles Brian’s shutters like an explosion upwind. 

But she mentioned _dressing him up_ and Brian paused her, quirked his head. 

“We’ve never done that.” 

“Oh, we used to do it all the time,” she said, with a dainty hand-wave and a smile.

“Like...dressed...how?” 

“Girly stuff, Bri, what dyou think?” she snorted. 

Brian felt his heart skip a touch. Pat’d never mentioned—

(he’d dressed Brian up many a time, of course

(toyed with his clothes in every mood from flirt to slut to office-casual to prom-night-chic))

but he’d never mentioned wanting to flip that script. Simone was watching his interest, feeling it, feeding on it, drawing it in to broaden her dark smile. 

“You might like it. It really cuts him down to size. Faster than hitting. Faster then—well, almost anything, really.”  

The speed isn’t what appealed, though. Yeah, Brian wanted to bring Pat some relief, to hit him with those fierce endorphins, to leverage Simone’s expertise at shaking him from a dark place with her brutal efficiency. 

But mostly Brian just wanted to _see—_

“Where do I fit in,” he said, over-eager, perhaps. 

“Just don’t get in my way.” 

“I’ll be good,” he said, and meant it. 

She snorted at that proclamation. “Bullshit.” 

“Um,” he paused, considered, dared. “D’you...want me tied up?” 

“Hmm,” she contemplated. Liked that. Parried. “That’d help. Nothing fancy, though. I don’t wanna be checking your circulation every ten seconds.” 

Brian nodded easily. “We can do that. Simple.” 

“Good. And it _would_ add another dimension—” She mused, moved her hand across the table to him. He flipped his arm palm-up, let her walk her fingers up the underside of his wrist.

He bit his lip against the tickle as she scratched the soft skin at the crook of his elbow. She was looking off into the distance, thinking. 

“—ooh, if he _knows_ he has to be good, or else you’re gonna get it...yeah. That’ll do just fine. You show up early and we’ll make it work.”

 

* * *

 

 

(Brian does cry, in the friggin’ Starbucks and everything). 

“Baby,” she soothes, strokes daintily at his thumb. 

He feels pathetic, that he can’t handle this, can’t handle _failing,_ fucking-up— 

(he thought he was _good_ at this, at scenes, at sex, at pushing Pat’s buttons

(but how can you be good at something if you feel like your heart’s been crushed every time you fail

(you can’t, that’s how, you can never get any better if you’re too afraid to fail

(he’s never going to— 

) 

) 

)

)

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Simone taps his wrist. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.” 

“I’m not freaked-out,” Brian sulks, and rubs at his eyes, and sniffles his way back into awareness. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I’m just—Pat’s so—I wish he’d just _safeword_ —when he doesn’t like something.” 

“You can lead a horse to water,” Simone gives a half-smile, strikingly asymmetrical with her dark lipstick. It’d be charming, might make him smile in return, if Brian weren’t still intent on sobbing his feelings out for all these fucking earbud-wearing chucklefucks to see— 

“But I sh-should—I should know better. I just hate it. I hate it. I hate when I fuck up a scene.” 

Simone eyes him. “You didn’t fuck up, Bribri.” 

He grips his hair. “I did. It’s not _your_ fault—” 

“I didn’t fuck up either,” she says, rather carefully. “Honey, this is normal. This is how _all_ our scenes used to end.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Brian came over first. Simone was gentle with him, sort of, but firm—she considered a buttplug—he was eager to please—laughed and reminded her he’s been well-trained and she laughed and petted him and said not tonight but she'd find a way to 'keep him interested.'

Then, her plans. She wanted Brian quiet, and relatively comfortable. She didn’t want him gagged, or hurt, or fighting. She didn’t want him getting in her way. 

He agreed to all of this, right-quick, and gave some tips on how to tie him up. Cross-legged, at the ankles. Arms behind his back. She wasn’t as careful with ropes as Pat might be, but it was hot in its own way, the roughness of it. She faltered on the elbows— _it’s cool, I’m double-jointed_ , he offered, and she played with that a bit, bent him around. But ultimately opted for something simple. 

“Don’t you get all Houdini on me,” she scolded. “Tonight’s not about you.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed. “I’ll be good.” He meant it, he _did_ , but maybe something about his tone was too excited, too eager. 

“Oh, you will absolutely not,” she muttered. “So here’s something to keep you busy.” 

The nipple clamps she pulled out were—a fine surprise. Just a little pinch of cold, when she put them on. When she tightened them, he sucked air, not really in pain—a touch, but mostly anticipation of what that was gonna feel like _later._  

She petted him (she liked the little sound). 

“And here’s something to keep you honest,” she said, pulling out her bondage tape. “Give me those naughty little fingers.” 

Brian felt his stomach drop, pleasantly, as she curled his hands into fists and taped them, a barrier to even potential disobedience. He whimpered for her, even though the rushing feeling in his stomach was more relief than fear. No way to fuck this up. 

Once she had Brian trussed up and helpless, she checked her phone with a sour expression. “Patty’s late. You might get to see something special tonight.” 

A cool dot of feeling, like a bead of sweat but moving _upwards_ , rolled up Brian’s back. “Pat’s always late, though.”

“Not for me,” she tapped the edge of her case deliberately. “He knows it makes me mad.”

 

* * *

 

“What?” 

Brian’s staring at her, breath rolling in and out through parted lips— 

(if he hadn’t just been crying, she’d probably tell him he looks like a fish) 

“This,” she enunciates, taps out the syllables, not sharp but very clear. “Is how our scenes used to end. Before you came along.”

“With you _leaving?_ ” 

“Yeah, baby,” she murmurs. “He insisted. Threw me out, sometimes.”

“I’ve _seen_ you cuddle, after—” He stutters to a halt, searching for some protest, but it’s ill-formed, because well, that first time, she _did_ go— 

“Sometimes,” she shrugs. “But aftercare isn’t my strong suit. That’s why we fit so well.” 

“He wants to be left alone,” Brian says, trying to convince himself, because it makes so much goddamn _sense_ and yet, and yet— “ _Alone_ alone?” 

“Yeah. He likes it if I tell him he did good. A little kissing. Nothing more than a couple minutes of that, though. You’ve seen. A couple smooches, then I’m outie-five-thousand, babe.” 

Her tone is light and—and _not._ Like she’s waiting for her score, and going to do her damnedest to convince the judges that whatever flubs they ding her for, she couldn’t give a good goddamn. Like she’s gonna walk off with her head held high and cry in her dressing room like a _professional._

Brian feels a bit adrift, but he doesn’t want to hurt her. “I don’t understand, Simone.”

“Brian.” Again, she’s clear, not angry but direct. “That’s how Pat is. Was. He wanted to be flown up ten thousand feet and dropped like a fucking stone.” 

She pauses, then adds. “And he didn’t want anyone around, when he hit the bottom.” 

The thought tenses Brian’s whole body. “That’s _brutal,_ Sim.”

Her smile is wry, and not devoid of guilt. “My middle name, sweetie. That’s why he calls me.”

 

* * *

 

“What should we do until he gets here?” Simone trailed a hand down Brian’s cheek. 

He knew what to do with that, licked his lips and begged right away. “Oh, please please, ma’am, let me eat your pussy. Please use my mouth—I’ll make it good—” 

“You are maybe the most darling creature I’ve ever met,” she smiled, and he felt warm with the praise

(he loved her pressing him backwards until his head was unsteady-leaning on the wall behind)

(he loved how she stood above him, slim and strong and _menacing_ ) 

(he loved hearing her tone shift, soft to hard, like a train picking up speed) 

“Suck on my cunt until your boyfriend gets here, slut,” she ordered, gripping at his hair. “You better hope he remembered our date. Or it’s gonna be a _very_ interesting night for you.”

He got her—not to orgasm, but very wet, by the time Pat rolled in and knocked and she screamed out _IT’S OPEN!_ so loud that he almost fucking _bit_ her. 

(and that would have been— 

well, who fucking _knows—)_

But as it was, he just yelped in fear and she laughed because she loves that, she loves him screaming into her cunt. 

“Don’t you dare stop, boy,” she muttered. 

(He didn’t, of course.) 

Pat padded in gently, already apologizing. “God I’m sorry—Simone—I had—oh.” 

That soft deflated _oh_ was when Brian realized (and he really should have known) that Patrick hadn’t, perhaps, been told that he would be here. He couldn’t roll the realization around in his mind, though, because Simone kept forcing Brian’s face into her clit and it was, as always, _imperative_ he pay attention to her little corrective nudges. 

“Um…should I….?” Pat’s sentence trailed off, nervous. 

“I’ll wait to turn around.” Her voice was cold. Her fingers playing over Brian’s face, stroking his hair, pressing shut his eyes. “Until you’re good and ready, Patrick.”

“Yes’m.” A beat. Two beats. Her fingers on his cheeks. “Should I…do anything special, or…?”

“Just naked and kneeling like usual, if you please.” Her fingernail trailed down the center of Brian’s nose, and he suppressed a shudder. “And get a butt plug into yourself. Pick one that’ll make me proud of you.”

“Yes’m,” Pat sighed, and Brian could hear him moving. 

“Oh, and Patrick?”

“Ma’am…?”

Pat’s voice has a particular sound, when he’s tense, coiled, waiting for the shoe to drop—

“You might want to hurry. I don’t know how long baby boy over here can hold his breath.”

 

* * *

 

Brian lasts another two minutes of conversation, three at most, before he rips out his phone. 

 

> **can i please come back?**  
>  **im freaked out.**

The pause seems interminable, but it’s not _so_ long, not really.  

 

> **Come back, then.** ****  
> **Give sim my love.** **  
> ** **But don’t say it like that** **  
> ** **Say she’s a still a cold-ass bitch and bless her for it**

Brian feels the tension break in his shoulders, feels a laugh touch off unexpectedly like an ocean spray. Simone cocks her head. He shows her the text, and she laughs too, and her relief is also as tangible as salt air. 

She hugs him, and stands. “Go take care of him, sweetie.” She pauses. “And… remind him to text me, when he’s all good?” 

“Of course,” he touches her arm, gently.

She nods, straight-backed and unaffected, and leaves without another word.

 

* * *

 

Simone made quite a show of choking Brian on her cunt— 

(she didn’t _really_ hold it, the whole time, though long enough to make it interesting, to make his lips start to prickle in between moments of relief)

—and though he couldn’t see it, Pat’s cursing and scrambling was gratifying, in its way. Another time, Brian might have whimpered or cried or squirmed, but such motivation seemed unnecessary— 

(and he got the feeling Simone would box his ears, for any theatrics)

because it was quick (not _instant_ , but damn quick) when Pat’s strained voice came—

“Ready, ma’am.” 

Simone’s a showman. She didn’t let go right away, oh no. She pinched Brian’s nose tight and held it, ignored the hesitant address and carried on for several seconds more. 

“Simone…”

“Fine _,_ ” she snapped, and turned around like a whip-crack, left Brian gasping. 

Sim stalked the room, as is her wont, gave Brian time to catch a few patchy mouthfuls of air. Eventually he collected himself enough to really look at Pat, on his knees, naked and still and obedient. He didn’t look particularly cowed, though. Just guarded. Taking in Brian’s status, the way he was tied. The heavy breathing, the clamps, the wet rosy cheeks. 

“Hey, Pat Gill,” Brian panted, with a faint smile. 

“Hey, kid,” Patrick said softly. His hands were folded behind his back. If he was late on purpose, Brian couldn’t tell—he looked a touch sweaty, flustered, like when he’s late on accident, when he’s hurried to get somewhere. But maybe he was flustered by something else. His expression was flat, but his voice was wry. “How’re you doin'.” 

“Fine,” Brian smiled, but she didn’t let him get out more than that. 

“You say one more word,” she growled from Brian’s left, tipping his chin up with her nails. “And I’ll stick you out on the fire escape. And it is _cold_ out there, boy wonder.” 

Brian snapped his teeth together and nodded quick. Probably a bluff. She wouldn’t put him _outside_ — 

—but he waited until his honest surge of terror flared and receded, before he found Pat’s eyes again. 

“All right now, Patrick,” she turned. Her hand was stroking Brian’s hair, fucking with his curls, nails dragging through his scalp. He felt his emotions bifurcate— 

(the half he let sit on his face was trembling-anxious but trying to be strong)

(the other half, private appreciation for her fucking beautiful dramatic _malevolence_ ) 

“—let’s talk about tonight.” 

Patrick’s face was steady. No enthusiasm, no fear. Contained. Maybe a little grim.

“You’re going to do what I ask you.” 

“Yes’m,” he responded, immediate, easy. She doesn’t tend to ask Pat hard questions, so he doesn't freeze up. He’s better at agreeing, denying, one-word stuff. 

“Because if you’re not good—well,” she tugged at Brian’s hair. “It’s sort of obvious, isn’t it?” 

“Yes’m.” His tone gave Brian nothing.  

“Good boy. So what do you think we’ll be doing tonight?” 

“I—” he risked a glance up at her, just brief. “I don’t know, ma’am.” 

Well, shit. Brian felt electricity curl in his stomach, his spine. He thought she’d already—

“We’re going to play dress up, Patty. Just like old times. Brian wanted to see you. You’ll be good for him, won’t you?” 

And oh, before she even got the words out, Pat dropped his head, hissed _god_ so soft into his chest, blushed crimson shame that leaked off his curling shoulders— 

(fuck, Brian found it sick and awful and _beautiful_

(he’d hate himself more for it, if he couldn’t _see_ Pat’s dick twitch

(man, Pat is beautiful and perfect and crazy and complicated)))

“Ahem.” Her hand was firm in Brian’s hair, although it didn’t hurt at all. “You’ll be good, won’t you?” 

“Yes’m.” So small, his voice. 

“Now, you were late, so let’s settle up with that, first.” 

This wasn’t a question, so Pat didn’t respond. He didn’t shiver, either. Just squared his shoulders in something like relief, kept staring at the ground— 

—his gaze jerked up when Brian gasped, though. Simone _yanked_ him hard, by the hair, not up but back and over, to the ground. It was just surprise, that gasp, not pain—

(the yank was hard but he went willingly) 

—and there was no pain in how he was pushed down— 

(he couldn’t lay flat, but his arms rested easily in the arch of his back) 

—but he couldn’t explain to Pat it didn't hurt

—couldn’t risk it. 

Simone lifted her foot to tip his cheek, turn Brian’s head to the side. He found himself relieved she was wearing ballet flats, not fierce stilettos. The press of her shoe against his face wasn’t painful, either. It still made his heart race. 

Pat opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking better. 

She reached her delicate hand down, balance impeccable, and grabbed the little chain. Pulled up, slow. Brian felt the tug at his nipples. Again, no pain. Not yet. He closed his eyes, prepared— 

“ _Please_ don’t—” Pat rasped— 

(a fucking _mistake,_ that) 

and Simone scoffed and _jerked_ and Brian 

(well, he was was proud he bit it off before it was a _scream_ )

gave a stifled moan as they flew free with a little _flp!_ sound, sharp pain, followed by the burn. 

“That’s not even the fucking _punishment,_ Patrick,” she spat, pushed off of Brian’s face and stepped over him coolly to come grip Pat’s chin, force his gaze up. “Shut your fucking mouth. You’ve already pissed me off, tonight, and he’s gonna fucking _feel_ it.” 

“Please—” Pat begged again, a little brokenly, and Brian was touched

(what a fucking _dumbass_ )

“—I—I didn’t know, Simone. I didn’t know _he’d_ —”

She hit him, then, not a backhand, just a slap, but it rang out loud. “I swear to god, Patrick, I’ll _find_ something this boy doesn’t like, if you test my fucking patience.” 

Pat said nothing to that, and she bent close to his ear, whispered something Brian couldn’t catch. It must have been wicked, too, because Pat’s breathing went ragged for a half-a-second, then very smooth, like when he’s in pain. 

She stood. “Now. Back to your little pain slut.”

 

* * *

 

Pat’s more or less where they left him, dress rumpled up and makeup smudged, though his back’s to the mirror now. Brian wraps an arm around himself. He’s nervous 

(that he fucked up, that he was wrong to do this from the beginning, that it’s wrong for him to be here _now_ ) 

but Pat looks up with a wry little expression and opens his arms. “Come here, baby boy.” 

Brian _barrels_ into him, his knees hit the floor as fast as his chest collides. He elicits an _oomph_ of surprise, and then a dusky chuckle. He apologizes over and over and kisses into Patrick’s rosy cheeks. 

“Bit off a bit more than you could chew?” Pat murmurs, stilling his _I’m sorries_. 

“I dunno,” Brian grips tight. “Are you—was that—are you _okay_?” 

“Mmmhmm,” Pat nods, and gives a smile that’s neither happy nor easy. 

“Can you—” He shouldn’t ask for anything, shouldn’t need anything, not _now,_ and yet he does. “Can you walk me through what parts were—what was it—what parts were like—?” 

“I’m not good at talking about this shit, Bri,” Pat says, a little hard-edged, but softened by his hand stroking down Brian’s arm. “I’ll try. If you ask questions. I know you like your scene post-mortems.” 

Brian bites his lips and asks for even _more_ , ungrateful brat that he is. “Can we do it on the bed?”

Pat laughs. “Oh. Right. Sure.” 

“And can I clean you up, first?”

There’s tenseness at that, hesitation, not whipcord-tight but noticeable in close proximity. “Sure. I’ll shower. Just, ah. Don’t expect much action from me.” 

“Of course,” Brian says, and unfurls from sitting to standing, offers Pat a hand to pull him upright too. He’s eager to get his hands on Patrick’s clothes, to undress him, to put him back right. “I just want you to feel, like, comfy.” 

Pat brushes back his hair. “Then, um…can I please… ” 

He wavers, hesitates on that for nearly a half-minute. It’s an _interminable_ time, but Brian holds his tongue because Patrick Gill is fucking asking for something he needs and he’d wait until the heat death of the universe if necessary. 

“...I know it’s wrong,” Pat says, very softly. “I know I do this wrong.” 

“What do you need,” Brian touches his arm, light. 

“Can I shower alone, please? I’m gonna— ” Brian’s nodding already, permission granted, before Pat barks a laugh, breaks off, continues. “I’m probably gonna cry like a little girl. And jerk off in this skirt like a weird pervert. And I just can’t have your pretty face around while I do it, okay?”

“Of course,” he says out loud, in case the nod wasn’t enough, and kisses Pat’s cheek. “Go for it, babe. I’ll be out here.”  

“Thanks,” Pat says, and acquiesces to being kissed before he slips away.

 

* * *

 

The punishment for Pat’s tardiness was…sharp, but fair. Brian doesn’t hate her flogger (although he likes it better on his ass (friggin’ Simone loves to torture his chest that _bitch_ )) and he can handle it. He was lucky—  

(the burning is so much more _insistent_ on his chest, creeps up to make him while in involuntary pain so fast it barely takes a stroke)

—that she pulled her punches a little.  

Pat watched when he was made to but his expression was a study in stone.   

“Now,” she turned, sharp as a whip-crack. “I’ve got some things for you, Patty. They’re on the desk there. Go and put them on.” 

Expressionless, Pat stood, reached for them with hands that could convincingly be called steady. Brian was on his back, but as Simone’s attention narrowed, he felt okay easing back up to sitting. She didn’t chide. She was watching Patrick pick up the different pieces. They were black, thin silk, and his fingers faltered a bit, uncertain which to put on first. He figured it out, though, without asking for help. High-waisted black panties, strappy and sheer and slutty, that trapped his cock against his body and yet left it obscenely visible. Long sheer stockings that end in garters, mid-thigh. A sweet halter-top bra, just as glassy-black as the rest, translucent enough to let his dark pink nipples show right through. 

He dressed quickly and with absolutely no sound, no protest, no resistance. Adjusted it all on himself, pink cheeks the only indication of reaction, then stood and waited for her. His gaze was on the floor. 

(God, it was something. His dark, red cock against the sheer black silk. Even more dramatic, when he turned in profile. Besides that, the black looked dainty, not out of place on Pat’s delicate skin, his fine bones. He was masculine, and not. It made Brian shiver.)

“Hmm,” she snorted dismissively. Brian was…surprised. In Pat’s place, he’d be getting saccharine compliments, petting, for how pretty he is—

(either overmuch praise to make him bite his lip in embarrassment, or just enough to make him hum with pleasure)

—but there’s none of that. She beckoned him over with a sharp handwave and ran her fingers over him for inspection. It was…rather cruel. How hard she tweaked his nipples, not just once, but again and again, until he moaned—how she toed his legs apart and tapped the plug in his ass—how she ran a finger up his trapped cock and frowned like he’d made a mistake. 

“You’re filthy,” she scolded, wiping her hand off in his hair. “What a dirty whore. Pathetic. You’re hard as a rock already. You love this. You love when I—”she grabbed him, hard, by the elbow, turned him toward Brian, “—when I make you my bitch. Has Brian seen you like this? Dressed up like a little princess whore and loving it?”     

Pat said nothing, just let her fondle him, and stood quite still. 

“Let’s have you look at your pretty self while I do your hair,” she decided, and forced him over to her full-length mirror. Predictably, he reddened and dropped his gaze, but she jerked his chin up hard. “Don’t you _dare_ , Patty. You _watch_ me. You look down one more time tonight and Brian’ll be feeling it tomorrow.” 

Brian fidgeted uneasily, less at the promise of pain than at Pat’s fleeting look of despair. Patrick stifled it quickly, though, just answered with a nod as Simone raked her fingers through his hair. 

“I’ll get my stuff,” she tsked. “Sit. I’m gonna have you do your makeup for yourself this time. You’re a good whore. You know how to do it. I’ll tell you what to use.” 

So acute was Patrick’s blush that Brian thought 

(this might have gone too far) 

thought it would be impossible to match a foundation color. But Pat didn’t protest, just sat, cross-legged, where he was put, and waited for Simone to rummage in the bathroom. His eyes watched Brian’s reflection in the mirror. 

“Why’d you need to see this,” Pat murmured, almost silently. “Why _this_.” 

Brian felt a little lurch of nausea, though he knew better than to respond.

 

* * *

 

Whatever Pat does in the bathroom, it takes a while. Brian busies his hands with cleaning, tidying up their scene, and then branches out. He’d almost forgotten about Simone, and guiltily he pulls out his phone. 

 

> **sorry we kicked you out of your own house** ****  
> **pats showering and calming down** ****  
> **he might still need a while** **  
> ** **is that k?** **  
> ** **can i do your dishes to make it up to u?**

There’s only a minute or two pause before Simone responds.  

 

> **lol ofc you can clean** ****  
> **and dont worry** ****  
> **youve got the run of the place.** ****  
> **im already headed to jennas** ****  
> **we’re gonna go out 2nite** ****  
> **and ill prolly crash at hers** ****  
> **so dont stress.** **  
> ** **if you do my laundry ill suck your dick tho.**
> 
> **whites or colors?**
> 
> **good boys do both**
> 
> **yesm**
> 
> **if you forget the fabric softener** **  
> ** **ill know.**
> 
> **that was ONE TIME**

He lays the phone on the counter while he rolls up his sleeves to start the dishes. He feels wrung out and meditative, but his brain just won't quit pondering questions that his wet fingers can't text— 

(why did she want to scene at her place?)  
(did she make plans with Jenna ahead of time?)  
(what parts of it does she like, and what does she do for him?)  
(how long does Pat usually need, to pull himself together?)  
(how did she even figure out he likes this?)  
( _does_ he like this?)

When he hears the water turn off, Brian’s juggling laundry detergent. He doesn’t spring up to respond right away, just keeps doing what he’s doing, double-triple-checking for anything that should be dry-cleaned. She’d murder him for that. 

(well, and he’d just feel awful, fucking up her clothes

(and then she might not let him do them again)). 

Maybe it’s weird, that he really _wants_ to do her laundry for her. But Brian has a lot of weird urges, and he tends to just go with them. Also Simone has a really hard time 

(accepting affection) 

letting anyone do anything for her that she could do herself. He feels very special, that he’s permitted to touch her things, to be in her house. To take something off her plate. It makes him feel close to her, in a way that doesn’t make her wince, and also doesn’t tire him out too much. 

Pat’s wandering out then, wrapped in a towel, scrubbed clean and seeming more normal, if a little quiet. 

“Simone’s out for the night,” Brian says, and steps toward him, reaches out, but doesn’t touch. Waits for Pat to step into his hand. 

“I figured,” he says easily, letting Brian’s palm find his hip. “Wanna order dinner?” 

Brian nods and pulls up grubhub (it’s an odd-numbered day so it’s his job to choose). They’re a trifle far from Pat’s favorite spicy noodle place, so he thumbs up the menu for Vietnamese and hands it out. 

Orders placed, Pat gets half-dressed and lays down in Simone’s bed, lets Brian curl against his back and breathe in the scent of his hair, soapy-clean and wet-dog smell at once.

 

* * *

 

Brian’d thought she’d go with pigtails for the hair, something little-girl humiliating. But Simone’s not simple. 

She wielded a curling iron, warning _if you flinch like a little bitch it’s gonna burn you_. Brian figured Pat’ll be good at staying still, but as she began to work it was clear she’d be at it for a while. Sim started on the crown of his head, rolling and pinning fingerwidth curls, shoving bobby pins here and there. It was a mercy when she gave Pat something to do with his hands, started barking directions at him for what to do with his face. 

He was clean-shaven (maybe she _did_ warn him? or at least give him a hint?) but still seemed to struggle, blotting on foundation (were his fingers trembling? hard to say). She handed him eyeliner and instructed him to make it bold. 

“Not goth-y,” she ordered. “Cat-eye, please.” 

Fuck, it was—intense, to watch them do this. It was a give-and-take, a tandem alternation, her letting off her curling while Pat did the more delicate work. Whenever she wasn’t fucking with pins, she stayed in constant contact, her hand on his shoulders, stroking the nape of his neck. 

(Did she know he got prickles there? That he was probably tingling out of his _skin_ ,from all this tender-wicked attention around his face?)

“Overdraw your lips, sweety. They’re too thin like that.” 

Dark mascara and bright red lips. It wasn’t quite drag-queen-bold, but moving in that direction, on Pat’s boxy masculine features. Simone applied hairspray liberally in between makeup instructions, pulling his dark hair into a sort of overdone pinup style. 

(She probably did this to her own hair, sometimes. When she was feeling herself, when she wanted to look feminine and fine. She and Pat have almost the same hair, really.)

“You love this,” she smiled at Pat, tipping up his chin. She’d been plucking his eyebrows, not shaping really, just grabbing the stray hairs, probably more for sensation than anything. Her hand tilted his head, directed him to the mirror. “Look at your boy, watching you. How does it feel, to have him looking?” 

Pat gazed where directed, but he was very blank. Brian felt his stomach lurch— 

“I said, how does it feel?” she yanked, sharp. “Tarting yourself up like a whore while Brian watches you?” 

No response, of course. Pat could no more answer that question than he could levitate. The next move was clear. Simone would ask again, Patrick would fail, and then Brian would get it, lather-rinse-repeat, until Pat found it within himself to say _something_ to her. 

Brian fidgeted, pulled up his bound legs, and decided to take the heat instead. “I think he hates it, ma’am.” 

Her face drew instantly into a scowl. “Oh? You a mindreader now?” 

“No,” Brian said, carefully. “Just a guess.” 

Her hands left Patrick then, and she stalked over to him instead. “What other guesses you have, slut.” 

Brian closed his eyes because he didn’t want to accidentally catch Pat’s face. “I think it makes him feel small. Looking at himself. You ordering him around. You touching him.” 

Simone scoffed at these answers, yanked a twist of Brian’s hair. “Not fucking rocket science, Brian. Give me something I don’t know.” 

“He’s probably wondering how I feel, when he dresses me up,” Brian offered. “He likes me in a skirt. It turns him on when I’m uncomfortable. He’s probably thinking about that.” 

“Hmm,” Simone stroked his hair while she considered that. “That’s actually almost helpful, baby boy.” 

“Helpful enough that you won’t put me on the balcony?” he murmured hopefully. 

“No balcony for you,” she scratched his head, almost kindly. “But I am gonna punish you for talking.” 

“Yes’m,” he assented. “I deserve that.” 

(Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, or maybe he deserved something worse, but at least then Pat wouldn’t worry.)

“What a good boy,” she praised, petted him still more, and Brian felt a twinge of guilt. He’s always stealing praise from Patrick, taking her affectionate touches and leaving Pat to her tender mercies. “Patty, be a good girl and pick me out a belt? A thin one. Then you put on your outfit while I punish him.” 

Brian opened his eyes to see Pat’s face look tight and drawn. He shot Brian a look of—no, it wasn’t sympathy. It might even have been frustration. 

She made him sit on his hands, turn his back from Pat dressing in the background. He wanted to see, desperately, what Simone had picked out for him to wear, but— 

—soon he was distracted, already yelping as she cracked the belt on his skin. She wielded it more like a whip than a strap, across his shoulderblades. He could feel it welting red instantly, sharp bright then burning. Intense. Fuck. 

Simone was good, she didn’t wrap it around, but it hurt like fire anyway. A few hot cracks in the same place and he wailed and whimpered, couldn't help it, the speed and aggression of it making it intense even if she wasn't putting her whole arm into the blow. No touching, no counting, no characters or wiggling away, he just had to lean into the feeling and hope she'd stop quick. 

She did. Only five. A warning. She left him gasping and ruffled his hair as she went, buckled the belt around her waist for safekeeping.

 

* * *

  

It’s a while, before Brian can ask, and even longer, before Pat can answer. 

“Did I fuck up your scene?” is what he says, which isn’t what he wants to say. He wants to say 

( _god I fucked up I’m sorry_ ) 

something about how he loves Pat endlessly, every part of him, including all the parts that Pat wishes weren’t there. That Brian’s urge to drag out all those parts isn’t to hurt him, isn’t to find out what he’s _really like_ and hate him or laugh at him or change him but just because—just because it’s okay to be a little fucked up, it’s _interesting_ is what it is—and maybe Brian’s a little fucked up, that all he wants is to know every dark secret, open every wound anew so this time he can see it happen and kiss it better—maybe it’s wrong, but it’s not a _trick_ , it’s not—  

but that’s kinda a lot of rambling, and if he starts rambling Pat’ll never get a word in. 

“Nope,” is all Pat says, after that long pause. “We worked around it.” 

“I want to ask—” Brian stops himself, before he can— 

“Go on, then.” 

“—I want to ask what would it be like, if I wasn’t there,” Brian buries his head in Pat’s shoulderblades, because he knows this is 

(the exact wrongest question to ask, absolutely the worst thing he could want to know, his fucking worst Pandora’s-box urges indulged for the hundredth time by Pat’s long-suffering sighs)

this isn’t something Pat’s going to answer. 

There’s a beat. Two, even. 

Then Pat snorts. “I’d be a lot less sore right now, so there’s that.”

 

* * *

  

Brian was surprised, again, by her clothing choices. He’d thought it’d be all bubblegum pink and flouncy lace. But it was—high-waisted plaid miniskirt, tight off-the-shoulder crop-top in simple black—not something Brian would wear but very _Pat_. Sort of a Hot-Topic bad girl aesthetic, but with the bold makeup and soft careful updo it conspired to be just very feminine. Pretty, really. Risqué for work but a very classy clubbing look. 

“Look at yourself,” Simone nudged him. “What do you see?”

(It gave Brian heart palpitations, that she kept _asking_ things.)

Pat muttered something, dark and quiet, and Simone laughed. 

“Louder, baby. Your boy can’t hear you if you stutter.”

Pat _glared_ at him then, through the mirror, sullen, stubborn, and clamped his jaw shut. 

“Baby, you’re going to get him in trouble. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“Fuck him,” Pat growled petulantly, and Brian’s heart skidded. Pat had _never_ — 

“Ooh!” Simone grinned. “Always surprising me, Patty. Really? You’d rather I give him a few more? Instead of just telling him what you are?” 

Pat said nothing, and Brian bit his lip. Whatever was coming, he maybe deserved it.

“All right then. If he can take ten we can skip it, how’s that? Bribri, you think you can handle that?” 

“Yes ma’am,” he said softly, to her but also to Pat. “Ten more’s fine.” 

“Good boy. And this ugly whore is gonna sit right here—” she pulled out her chair, pressed him into it, folded his fingers around the seat “and watch. And every time you look away,” she jerked Pat’s hair. “He’s gonna get another. Get it?” 

Pat made no sound, but let her push his legs apart, kept his hands down, looked where she said. God, he obeyed her _endlessly_. 

When she tipped Brian over onto his back, though, Pat made a sound. 

“On his front, Simone?” 

“You betcha, girly-girl,” she grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry. He’ll take it for you. He _wanted_ to be here.” 

“Don’t,” Pat sighed, curled inward, but didn’t move his fingers. “Don’t do that.” 

“Then say it. Tell Brian what you think of boys in skirts. Tell him.”

The words—the tone, was so goddamn _cruel_ that Brian sucked a breath. Pat stuttered, stopped speaking. Brian tipped his head to look 

(the anguished expression, anger, fear, the jagged way his air was catching, welling, building up behind his teeth, inexorable, a pressure Simone would keep winching down until he broke—)

“I c-can’t, Simone—” 

“Then he’s taking ten, Patrick,” she said, clipped, “and don’t whine about it.” 

“I…” 

He trailed off, fighting his thoughts, flexing his fingers. Looked away. 

“I _should_ make it eleven.” 

“Please,” Pat snapped back to attention. “Don’t do this.”

“You’re the one _doing_ it, Patrick,” she snarked back, merciless. “C’mon, tell him.”   

Nothing forthcoming. Brian closed his eyes and tried to breathe. This was

(the opposite of the right headspace to take these strokes he could feel everything so strongly like time is slowed down and his heart was pounding and like he was so fucking anxious he could barely breathe) 

it was a gonna be a _lot_ , but he could take it. For Pat. 

(Or at least, he could be the one that pulled safeword. He’d be okay with that.)

Simone wound up, and let the first lash go. 

Brian bit down on his cry harder than he ever had in his life, stifled it to nothing but a little _mmph_. Tears still sprang to his eyes unbidden, at the bright pain, the burning. 

She wound up again, fast as ever, and— 

the crack came funny, sound odd, no _pain_. Simone’s not the type to miss _,_ so Brian blinked his wet eyes open in a hurry, in case she was faking him out. But she wasn’t leering over him, when his vision cleared—well, she was there, but so was Pat, standing next to her, looking fucking _angry_ , with her belt wrapped around his wrist and his other arm on her shoulder.

“No more _,_ Simone.”

“Patrick,” she growled, voice a threat and a warning— 

“I can take it!” Brian gasped out, wet-eyed and shocked but— 

“Shut the fuck up,” he barked down, and Brian cringed from the tone. “Sim, I’m not gonna fucking say that shit in front of him,” he roughed out. “So leave it. Yellow.  

God, why was Brian’s breath so _loud_ , every sniffle, every drag of air seemed to drown out the sound of their breathing, the burning pain on his chest, it all distracted him from trying to decipher the cataclysm happening above him. 

“Do we stop, then,” Simone asked, evenly. Not sorry, and not angry. 

“No.” Pat was still gruff. “Go on. But keep him out of it.” 

“Fine. I can blindfold him, then?” she offered. 

Pat glanced down, snorted. “No, he wanted to see. He’ll be quiet.” 

“All right.” Simone brushed back her hair, pulled a few faces as if needing to work them out of her system. “The old-fashioned way, then.” 

They circled each other. It was like a dance. She pulled at Pat, unwrapped his wrist and looked at it before she shoved him, hard. There was

(no apology, no comment, no tenderness) 

only the briefest pause, as she forced him over her desk, pulled up his skirt obscenely. Pat turned to her and murmured, without meeting her eye.  

“Might take a bit.” 

She _hmmphed,_ unaffected, and Brian could _see_ Pat relax at her disinterest. 

“Make sure he’s okay,” Pat grunted then, laying his forehead on his folded forearms. 

“Stay fucking still,” she pinched, to punctuate the point. 

He did. Stay still, that is, the whole time. Simone didn’t rush. She helped Brian sit up, untied him, fussed over him a bit. She’s not the type to dry your tears, but she could see him trembling—she smoothed her hands over his shoulders, grasped his face, kissed him on both cheeks. _It’s okay baby_ , she whispered. _Sometimes I have to try a coupla things_. 

She offered a blanket but Brian gestured it away, just pulled on one of her t-shirts instead, sat propped against the bureau with his hands wrapped around his knees. Eventually he gave enough of a smile to satisfy her, and she gestured to him melodramatically with a single finger to her lips. Hushing him. Brian nodded fervently. 

Then she stalked back over, flipped up Pat’s skirt, and whipped him ‘til he _bled_.

 

* * *

 

Brian doesn’t mean to cry again. He’s a crier, okay. It just happens, whether he wants it to or not, and especially after he’s fucked up, and especially if he _keeps_ fucking up

(keeps fucking the _same exact thing_ up) 

especially if he suspects that whatever he’s fucking up is a feature of his nature so fundamental that un-fucking it would take like probably a shock collar and six weeks of obedience school.  

Pat flips to face him and strokes his hair and holds him, which is 

(more than he deserves) 

very nice. Soothing. It calms him down. Pat murmurs things like _you’re beautiful, baby_ and _you were fine_ and _it’s okay_ and other little meaningless platitudes. 

“Why am I crying,” Brian moans in despair. 

“ ‘Cause you’re perfect,” Pat kisses him above his brow, very soft. 

“That’s not an answer,” he pouts. “That makes no sense.” 

Pat smiles a little. “I kinda mean, you do things right on the first try, usually. Me and Sim, uh. We fuck it up way more. Or I do, really. Especially with her.” 

Brian frowns. “You didn’t fuck up. I fucked up. Wanting to be here, to—to watch, that was—too much, I should’ve known—” 

“Bri,” Pat clucks, strokes at his hair. “I’m perfectly capable of throwing you out of a scene. I was kind of…” he hesitates. “...excited, you were there. At first. It chucked me right out into orbit. You, uh,” he scratches Brian’s head, “you knock the wind out of me, when I see you, sometimes. Simone loves that. How off-balance I get.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brian says miserably. “I shouldn’t’ve ever…done any of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Pat was begging by the end. She mocked him for crying, first the idle teardrops, then the shaking quiet sobs of long-enduring pain. She smacked his hands when he moved them, called him a whiny little bitch, cracked on his pale skin over and over until it was pink-striped and then red and then _broken,_ and still kept going, pushing, scolding, yelling, until he was gulping out prayers for mercy. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, between blows, her impassive grunts of effort. “I’m sorry I—couldn’t—please—” 

“You’re _weak_ ,” she barely paused. “ _He_ could say it, you know. He’d say anything I asked.” 

“I know,” Pat gasped. “I know.” 

“You’ve put him in a dress before, haven’t you. In public. You’ve tarted him up and paraded him around.” 

“I _know_ ,” he sounded so ragged-tired and grief-stricken and still so, so angry. “It’s sick.” 

“ _You’re_ sick,” she doubled back his line. “You like humiliating him. Making him squirm. Making him your slut. Making him everybody’s slut.” 

Pat sobbed forlornly, saying nothing and barely holding still, sliding off the desk between blows, crying. 

“Oh, I know you, Patty. You’d like that. Dressing him up and bringing him to a party, passing him around. You’d get off on that, watching people fuck him, watching him dressed up all pretty and taking it. Pimping him out.” 

“No,” Pat collapsed to the floor, then, a pile with his arms over his head, shielding himself from her stinging blows. She didn’t stop though, planted another and another, on his sides, his legs, his arms. 

“You can’t say it, you can’t even _hear_ it, but you _want_ it, don’t you?” 

“I’m s-sorry,” wet, into his hands, a wreck, a mess. “I’m s-sick.”

“You’re depraved,” she snorted. “You’re broken. You can’t stand to live with yourself. You’d commit a murder before you’d go out dressed as a girl. You think just _that little_ of us, don’t you.”  

“No— _no_ —”  

“I bet if I sent Brian out in this outfit you’d get hot and bothered. You’d be _excited_ if someone found him in a bar, grabbed his ass—” 

“ _No,_ ” Pat’s so quiet now, curled, balled up. “I don’t want that.” 

“But you _do_ ,” she drove in grimly, more unbalanced lashes. “You fantasize about it. Him walking down the street and getting grabbed by a group of guys, getting pinned down, stripped, screaming—” 

“No, no,” his voice is fucked, from begging. He sounds desperate. “Not him. Not that.” 

“Don’t _lie._ I know your dark thoughts, Patrick. You’re a sick puppy. Tell me you see it in your mind’s eye. Brian in that pretty dress, getting handled rough—” 

“ _Me_ ,” he groaned, fists in his hair, voice wavering-loud. “Not him. I think about _me_.” 

“You, in a pretty dress like this?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” he wept, “yes, okay, yes.” 

She stayed her hand, finally, left all the red raised places welting up. “You think about getting held down. Getting fucked. Screaming for help.” 

“Yes,” he sobbed. 

“Getting what you deserve?” 

There was no answer to this prompt, just crying and crying, and then he threw them out.

 

* * *

 

“Brian,” Pat taps him on the cheek, draws him back into the moment. “Stop spiralling for a sec, okay? Can you just—just chill with the guilt. ‘Cause like. It’s not like you failed. I wouldn’t even say the _scene_ failed, okay? Like. That’s usually pretty much what I’m looking for.”  

“Simone said that too,” Brian admits. “But you stopped her—in the middle—”

Pat snorts. “Yeah, but y’know, she tries some crazy stuff. Sometimes you gotta reign her in. She’s working with a real—” he taps his head “—a real prize, up here. She’s gotta swing for the fences. I just didn’t want—” 

He pauses, a long moment, then sighs, looks at Brian’s tear-stained face. Decides to 

(gut himself) 

get into it, a bit. 

“I didn’t want you to hear me say some fucked-up shit, alright? ‘Cause that’s where it was going—and she slaps me or paints my nails or calls my ass a pussy or shaves my legs or what the fuck _ever_ until she makes me—until I say some dumb shit about boys who skip or lisp or who…who dress like girls. He had some words for…” Pat’s mouth screws up painfully. “My dad, I mean. He had some words for people like you.” 

“You’re not him,” Brian breathes. 

“No, god bless,” Pat sighs, and rubs his eyes. “Thank Simone for that.” 

“Pat Gill, you don’t have to—she doesn’t need to—”  

“It helps, though. I dunno, kid. I can’t explain it. I’m sorry. I really…if I could tell you why it helps, I would. I’d come right out like you and say—” he mimics Brian’s voice, light, breathy, chipper, “‘ _hey, can you whip me until I confess to having rape fantasies? how’s next Tuesday? great!'_ ” 

Brian winces before he looks up, and sees Pat’s joking. He relaxes. “Were you serious about that?” 

“Jesus God, Brian, you think I had it in me to _lie_ ?” Pat snorts. “I wasn’t _acting._ I’m not _you_.” 

“But was that—what you wanted? Or did you want to like—” Brian hesitates, bites his lip. “Explore the, um, homophobia a bit more, and you diverted to that because of me?” 

Pat actually laughs at that. “Fuck, Bri, I never know what we’re gonna _explore_. It coulda gone that way, but I wasn't wanting anything, really. Simone handles the direction. I just know Sim’s gonna poke around until she gets something. She’s just fishing. Feels good, when it catches, that’s all.” 

“It doesn’t look like it feels good.” 

“You’re one to talk, crybaby,” Pat boops him on the nose. He’s still got that _i-don’t-mean-it_ smile, and it’s sort of infectious. “And yeah, it hurts like fucking hell. But then it’s good, after. I mean, the rush is good. But also just…” he pauses. “I never find out anything new, in therapy. But with her…she really. Just beats it right on out of me. It makes me feel like I’m…I dunno. Making progress, somehow. ”

“Jeez,” Brian breathes. “This is a very aggressive read on _know thyself,_ Patrick.”

“You and your Greeks,” Pat sighs. “Philosophy, again?”

“I think you should read about the Stoics,” Brian declares.

“Ugh. Homework,” Pat covers his eyes. 

Brian hesitates. He’s gonna go to the well, just one more time, because he’s 

(a fucking asshole) 

 _almost_ , almost understanding. 

“So did you learn anything new, this time?” 

“Uh-huh,” Pat raises an eyebrow. “Wanna guess?” 

“About your rape fantasies?” 

“Mmmhmmm.” 

It’s Brian’s turn to groan. “Pat Gill I could literally have just _told you_ that you have rape fantasies, like, six months ago. I probably coulda even gotten the feminization part, or like, humiliation, a gangbang, whatever it is—like you woulda had to just give me _three guesses_ —” 

Pat laughs and moans and claps his hands over his ears, “Ay, fuck, no, no, yellow, too much honesty, Jesus Christ, you’ll kill me.” 

“Sorry,” Brian says, again, for the dozenth time, but it’s with a smile. “Next time I’ll like, uh, couch it in like sixteen layers of subterfuge, okay? Like I’ll have some scene that I _really really_ want to do, and you can like, be all reluctant—”

“ _Yellow_ —no, fuck that, _red_ —” Pat’s grabbing him now, pinning him down, even though moving makes him wince a bit. “I’m tickling you until you shut the fuck up, I’m not ready to unplug from the Matrix on this one, okay, just keep that shit to yourself—”

Brian giggles and squirms and kicks with being tickled, and Pat doesn’t let up until he’s breathless with smiles again. It’s good, that little kick of relief. He needs that.  

And whatever Pat needs, it seems like he got it, too. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC WARNINGS  
>  **sex:** anal play (buttplugs), oral sex (M/F, M/M), M/M/F threesome  
>  **BDSM:** bondage, D/s, femdom, punishment, s&m, safewording, scene stoppage, limited aftercare, there are points at which everyone is /not/ having a blast but it turns out okay  
>  **kinks:** forced feminization, humiliation/degradation, impact play / flogging, nipple clamps, pain play  
>  **other content:** non-woke genderfuckery, 
> 
> so the request was for femboy!pat and JESU JOY OF MAN'S DESIRING it really fought against being written. sorry??? i will write and sketch all the pats in dresses you could ever want in other, parallel universes, but this pat here? has Issues. so this is what we get.


	39. After:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simone's worn out. jenna's there. 
> 
>  
> 
> _i'm a clever lady / just like a satin doll / a little wanton maybe / but I keep my wanting small / i am not looking for love / not trying to fall / a taste of you / that's all_

Simone’s a simple girl. She likes to fuck. She likes to talk. She likes to laugh loud and not apologize for it. She likes to pull hair and bruise knees and be on the fucking top. She likes to  _ win.  _

And then there’s Jenna. 

“ _ Please— _ ” oh fuck. me. Those are fucking  _ tears _ . What a god-damned disgrace— 

“Shhh.” 

The hand doesn’t card through Simone’s hair. It just rests on her sweaty forehead like it’s taking her temperature. Like she’s sick. And Jenna knows the fucking cure. 

_ Oh, and the cure is fucking,  _ Simone thinks, and laughs to herself. 

Which means she laughs out loud. Which means Jenna hears it. Which is maybe not the reaction you’re supposed to have, when a gorgeous woman is taking you apart at the seams and barely even _touching_ you while she does it. 

Jenna doesn’t particularly react to the laughing. She’s got Simone’s clit trapped with the sides of her two fingers and she’s rubbing it idly, between her knuckles. 

“Tell me the rest.” 

“But can I—can I  _ see  _ you _ —please— _ ?” 

Simone’s voice is hot with need. She finds she doesn’t care. Fuck it, she needs to see— 

yes, yes. The magic word. The blindfold eases off and in the newly-bluish light Simone can see her. It sticks a little, in her throat. The coarse-cut hair, the bold lips, the soft sweet features made severe. 

There’s very few people in the world who would call Simone well-behaved. Honestly, most folks would probably say she’s not  _ capable _ of it. They wouldn’t even be entirely wrong. 

But god, this girl, this fucking gorgeous girl, Simone wants to be  _ good  _ for her. 

Jenna smiles a little. She’s dressed, and Simone’s naked. Mostly. That’s Jenna’s idea, of course. She has a thing for dressing and undressing. Bathing, too. She likes drive her nails through the layers of the day and  _ peel  _ them off, strip Simone down to slim and shivering core, brush her fingers along her pale skin, cup her breasts. 

_ Fuck,  _ it’s good, how she kisses up their underside, invites Simone to moan and arch back on the countertop. 

Oh. Did she mention? She’s on the counter. ‘Cause Jenna’s fucking strong as shit, and she does that. 

_ So sue me, I like to put you on a pedestal,  _ Jenna grinned, when Simone first pointed out that beds are, like, made for this?  _ I know it’s cold. You’ll live.  _

It grew on Simone. The being-literally-swept-off-your-feet thing. First of all, it’s fucking  _ efficient.  _ No delay, no idle chit-chat, no false pretenses, no fucking around—just  _ fucking around _ , pure and simple. The instant she gets in the door. No wasted effort. Simone appreciates that. 

She also appreciates the hell out of not having to do jack shit. Especially on a night like tonight. A day like today. When she’s would up tight as a tourniquet but it’s not a good idea to loosen all that up with wine and chocolate and sloppy romantic kisses or whatever. 

Sometimes, Simone can stand that. Enjoy it, even. But not tonight. She’d bleed out. 

Jenna’s got this one well in hand. She’s neither sweet nor merciful nor cruel. She’s just direct. Swats Simone’s hands away if she tries to unfasten even a single button.  _ Be good,  _ she mutters,  _ or I’ll have to tie you up.  _

Simone hasn’t explored that offer yet, actually. Maybe one day. 

Well yes, okay, don’t be an ass, of _course_ she’s explored the fucking _concept_ before. In depth. With Pat and with Brian and with like six old boyfriends. And yeah. Don’t be a _fucking idiot._ She’s done it both ways. In college. Doesn’t everyone try shit out in college? It wasn’t for her. 

And then there’s Jenna. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sounds like you did good,” Jenna soothes, strokes through Simone’s hair, down her neck, the drag of fingertips suggesting rhythmically the direction for stress to drain, down down downward and out. 

“Eh,” Simone shrugs. She feels better, now that she’s come, but still not  _ really  _ chill yet. That might take some weed. Or another couple orgasms. The night is young. 

“What was your favorite part?” Jenna’s fingers are busy, soft but diligent, finishing her work at Simone’s blouse. She’s pulling where it’s bunched up around her elbows to get it off properly, stroking the soft underskin of her arms as she goes. 

“Uh,” Simone says, before she thinks. Like usual. “Hard to—uh.” 

She’s not sure. It’s good, playing with three. More ways to press on Pat without crushing him. Brian’s bouncier. He’s surprisingly fun to top. Way more resilient than he looks. Although still— 

“I was too hard on Brian,” she sighs. “Because he—” 

Jenna interrupts, sharp voice and sharp pinch. “ _ Best _ part, girl.” 

It’s corrective, but not scolding. Jenna knows her attention is gonna be shot to shit tonight. 

Some nights she might use that to her advantage, work Simone up until she  _ has  _ to stay focused. But tonight, not that. Jenna’s got range, and she uses it.

Simone’s done a couple stints domme-for-hiring, back before she landed this gig. Before journalism and writing and new media and all of it had Worked Out. It was a weird idea—but good money. She was good at it. 

Most dommes in the biz have a brand. Service tops or sweet torturers, cruel taskmasters or tough love, prison wardens or indulgent daddy doms. Simone has a few different routines actually, but they all shade more or less the same way. Sadistic hedonist. Overenthused nymphomaniac. Cruel but fashionable. 

But Jenna does more with less. She’s comfortable just…just leading, taking control, like it’s not a costume at all, like it’s just well-worn practical clothes. She can do the big song-and-dance, of course. When she wants. Three-inch heels and whip-cracking and making you lick your come off the floor. But she also does just…

this, just this. This thing she’s doing right now. Pressing and touching and making Simone feel oddly  _ cherished,  _ sitting up on her own kitchen counter, staring down into this round bright tough smart soft face. 

Goddamn. Jenna is the fucking Swiss army knife of tops and her edge never seems to dull and Simone loves it for many reasons. One: it’s fucking  _ hot _ . Two: professional admiration. 

“What’d you like,” Jenna prompts, again.

Right, right. The best part. Hmm. 

“Well, the ending kinda went off the rails.” 

“...you sure this is gonna be your  _ favorite  _ part?” Jenna’s voice is teasing but it’s the soft kind, as her fingertips press over the ridge of Simone’s collarbone. 

“Yeah it was—well, it’s stupid, hah,” a dismissive hand-wave, “I mean, it’s silly, but I was kinda proud of Pat.” 

“Oh yeah? What’d he do. Stop you?”

“Yeah— _ eahhh,  _ eurgh Jenna be  _ gentle  _ my shoulders are  _ achey  _ remember—”

“That’s why I’m rubbing them. Don’t be a baby.”

“It’s _your_ fault! I’m too much of a noodle to do _four sets_ of press-ups—”

“You did ‘em,” Jenna pinches. 

“Not all of them.” 

“Most of ‘em. You’ll get ‘em next week. That’s how workouts are.” 

Simone turns on the counter, plants herself cross-legged facing in so Jenna can get at her back properly. The angle’s kinda wrong for massages since Simone’s up so high, but Jenna drives strong thumbs up the crease of her back anyway and it’s pleasantly not-overwhelming, just one firm point of contact. It’s nice.   

Jenna really just blows through any hesitation Simone had, about bottoming for...for  _ anyone _ . She makes it easy. She just knows what Simone needs. Whether she withholds it or gives it up, that’s up to her, but the point is that she  _ knows.  _

It’s kinda terrifying how good she is at seeing right through Simone’s bullshit. 

“Are your pecs sore? In the front?” 

“Yeah,” Simone sighs. 

“ ‘kay. Go lie down on the bed then. I’ll help with that.” 

“Ahhh, the fine art of boob massage,” Simone can’t help grinning as she slides off the counter. 

“Pshhh,  _ art _ , this is a  _ science _ .” She pauses, then calls after her retreating back. “And get ready to tell me about the end of your scene. It’s okay if it takes some time.” 

Jenna knows a lot about Simone. She knows how Simone takes her tea (black, little honey, inevitably forgetting to take out the teabag until it’s oversteeped). She knows how Simone feels about cats and dogs and children (fine but nah no thanks). She knows that hidden role games stress Simone the fuck out, and after every Overboard taping she needs to be pulled into the bathroom and taken apart down to the ground. 

(Yes, right at work. Jenna could give a fuck about work. She doesn’t care. She just cares to hoist Simone’s skirt up and fingerbang her until she’s whimpering. Jenna’s fingers do things cocks can only  _ dream  _ of.)

It’s good, to have someone who fucking  _ understands you _ . Who thinks you’re beautiful. Who doesn’t need shit from you. Who’s never underfoot, but never more than a phonecall away. Who’s fuckin’  _ smart _ . 

“ _ D’you want to pick a vibrator? _ ” Jenna calls from the other room. 

“Nah! I trust you,” Simone yells back, overloud. She wouldn’t trust  _ all  _ of her fuckbuddies with something like that. Not even all the ones with clits. But Jenna always picks right. 

  
  
  


 

 

 

Tonight, Simone will let herself be romanced a little. Jenna’s not as whackadoodle about ambiance as Brian, but she does like to set up a bit. Set the scene and all. She has a thing for music, that kind of stuff. Simone honestly never thought much about what kind of _soundscape_ surrounded her fucking before but. Well. She sure does now. 

Tonight it’s candlelight and some faint kinda irishy music. It’s fuzzily relaxing, blurs the edges of their bodies a bit, releases some valve of pressure. It’s dark, it’s chill, it’s not too horny. No expectation of performance. 

Tonight, Jenna’ll beckon in to her bedroom, position herself behind, their thighs two interlocking V’s. Simone fucking  _ loves  _ how Jenna’s arms bracket her waist, hold her tight. She loves it so much that when Jenna goes to move them, she’ll probably whine. Too needy a gesture, probably. But Jenna won’t comment. 

She’ll ask again. What the best part was, that is. If Simone fucks up again, spirals into worry, forgets the question, she’ll stop it. She’ll nip at Simone’s earlobe and growl  _ you already went over this  _ in a chiding rumble. She’ll let Sim work out all the messy anxieties, the vicissitudes, the nuances between Pat’s  _ oh please miss stop  _ and his  _ cut it the fuck out Simone _ . 

She’ll drive the conversation, softly, firmly, toward warmer things. She’ll appreciate the symmetry. She’ll agree that Pat looks hot with a collar on. She’ll laugh and sympathize about how Brian’s a stone-cold faker. (He’s just too fuckin’  _ good  _ at it.) She’ll goad her into trying suspension. She’ll remind Simone that she’s not a mind-reader. She’ll say that that’s what safewords are  _ for.  _

Simone didn’t used to do a ton of post-coital cuddling. She’d smoke a joint maybe, kiss you if you needed it, but none of that tender stuff. Nothing fancy. 

And now there’s Jenna. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> \- sex: F/F pairing (Jenna/Simone)  
> \- bdsm: D/s dynamics, blindfold, general discussion  
> \- other: brief mention of tears
> 
> short one, nothing reaaaaal sexy in here, but i'm back in the saddle baybees ~~*

**Author's Note:**

> though the queue is slow and unordered, i take porn reqs, ask away (comments moderated for privacy if you so choose)


End file.
